Guardian of the Peace - The Rewrite
by Mother-of-Monsters
Summary: **This is a rewrite of my original work, Guardian of the Peace.** With the world still fresh from the last World War, Sherlock Holmes may be all that stands in the way of a certain mastermind who wants nothing more than to watch the tentative peace dissolve into chaos. **Please do not redistribute my works to other sites such as goodreads or ebookstree without my express permission
1. A Dramatic Moment of Fate

_AN: Hello my dears! I've missed you all so much. I can't apologize enough for taking so long to update and post. I've been going through kind of a rough time and a writing rut, but I think I've finally conquered it. This is (obviously) a rewrite of my story Guardian of the Peace. The original draft will remain posted for a while, until I finally manage to incorporate all of its material into the rewrite. That, and I didn't want to lose any of your glorious comments. I hope you will all love this as much as you loved the original posting, and you haven't completely forsaken me or written me off as a lost cause. Please remember, comments and constructive criticism are very much welcome. Thank you ever so much for reading!_

_Disclaimer- I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of its characters. I bow before the talented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat for the privilege of borrowing their characters for a bit of fun. Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing them with the world._

**Chapter 1: A Dramatic Moment of Fate**

_"Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill."_  
_― Arthur Conan Doyle_

Dr Mike Stamford stared at the open file on his desk and tried not to focus too hard on the way his eyes widened further with each sentence that he read. The soft sound of Harry Watson, his dear wife's frequently-on-and-off-the-wagon secretary, fidgeting in her seat across from him faded into the background under the sound of his own mind turning over and over like an engine failing to start. What he was looking at was the result of a culmination of years worth of scientific trial-and-error, intuitive leaps, accidental/unexpected successes, crushing failures, playing God, dumb luck, and a hint of madness.

"This," Stamford swallowed heavily, "this is fucking brilliant and terrifying."

Harry's face twisted into a combination grimace/snarl that was rather unattractive.

Mike scratched the side of his face, then rubbed his cheek with his palm for a moment before cradling his chin and leaning his elbow on the desk. "Look, I agreed to give your brother a check-up but I didn't," he cut himself off with a gusty sigh. He took another moment to collect his thoughts, then continued, "I'm not taking that back or anything. I'm just curious why you even bothered showing me all of, you know, this. Everything."

After a second of fidgeting with the cuffs of her shirt and chewing on her lower lip, Harry took a deep breath into her nose and let it out through her mouth while her shoulders slumped. She raised her red-rimmed eyes, underlined by dark purple bags hidden beneath a layer of powdered foundation to the ceiling. "I couldn't let you just go thinking he was going to be your normal, average patient. All the other doctors we've, well he's, gone to didn't know the extent of his physical condition."

"Harry, plaque psoriasis is a physical condition. Genetic engineers stripping the DNA of a fetus, then modifying it with coding from a dozen or so different animal species, manipulating it until a viable embryo is able to be implanted into a woman, and making sure it matures into a living, breathing, chimeric being is completely different."

"I know," Harry hissed, her thin-lipped mouth twisting. "I was trying to be delicate. Do you have any idea the trouble Johnny and I have run into bringing him even to a bloody hospital?" She raked a hand through her shoulder-length honey-gold curls. "The man has organs that shouldn't exist in a human body, for God's sake! Do you realize how hard that is to explain to the NH-bloody-S?"

Massaging one of his temples with two fingers to stave off the kind of headache one could only cultivate by absorbing proof that something which should have been 'science-fiction' was actually 'science-fact', Stamford let out a deep breath through his nose while pressing his lips together in a frown. "Just his damned organs? Try everything, Harry! His musculature and skeletal structures, circulatory system, every damned system in his entire body is different!"

"It all works the fucking same!" Harry shoved her seat backwards and lurched to her feet. She paced back and forth in the small space with rapid jerks of her arms and hands as she spoke. "He's still, at the core, a human being. He's not a science experiment, well he was, but he isn't anymore. Everything works the same, even if it's built a bit differently. But all that everyone seems to see when we bring him into an office is the novelty of it. They want to poke and prod him like a damned lab monkey!" Halting her frantic march, she planted her hands so firmly on the edge of the desk the pressure turned her skin white. "I just need somebody who will finally just give him a damn check-up once in a while to make sure he's healing all right and, maybe, recommend a therapist who understands that PTSD isn't just a bunch of fucking letters!"

The hand rubbing his temple in a circular pattern was re-purposed to wrap around his mouth as Stamford's eyebrows furrowed. After half-a-minute of silent but tense reflection in this position, he relaxed the pressure of his hand. "You came to me because you know I work with the Department of Defence." His voice was slightly muffled by his fingers, and there was no questioning inflection to the words. "I know my way around battle injuries and stressed soldiers. I'm flattered. Truly."

"But you don't treat genetically altered monsters? Navy sailors? Americans?"

"Harry, that's unfair." The corners of his lips drew down and he waited until her back bowed and her shoulders drooped in acquiescence. "I have an obligation to inform the Department about this. Frankly, it's unprecedented. If I take him on as a patient, and they find out I know about any of this and didn't bring it to the attention of Research and Development, I won't just lose my job, I'll most likely be eradicated."

A corner of Harry's mouth tilted upwards, "No need for dramatics."

"I really don't think I can be too dramatic about something like this," he flapped a hand at the paperwork in front of him. Holding up a hand in a bid for silence, he took another glance over the extraordinary reading material before him. Stamford removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes with both hands before replacing his lenses back on his nose. "Look, thanks to laws about doctor-patient confidentiality I can redact his name and a few other pertinent facts on the files. I still have to bring this sort of thing to the attention of the Department, though." He allowed a tired smile to grace his lips. "I'm not going to deny the fact that I would do this just to satisfy my curiosity alone. But, since you've been a good friend to my wife, I'm happy to at least meet him and see what he thinks about all this."

A litany of 'thank you's dripped from Harry's lips as she lurched up and around the desk to gather him in a desperate embrace. Mike sputtered a bit before patting her gently on the shoulders, his cheeks turning a blazing pink. It took a long moment for her to disentangle herself and sigh over and over in gratitude, as though a huge weight had been removed from her back, before she was calm enough to speak again.

"He's outside waiting for me in the gardens." Harry jerked a thumb over her shoulder towards the door. "If you want to meet him now?"

"Came prepared for all contingencies, did you?" Stamford grumbled, but still rose from his seat.

"No," her smirk was wicked and self-deprecating, "my license got suspended. He's driving me around today."

Mike gave her a parental, disappointed shake of the head, though his lips trembled as he tried not to smile. They stepped into the hall and traversed towards the gardens at a sedate pace; Harry's movements seemed a bit jerky, as if her mind was warning her legs not to give in to joviality and skip the whole way. When they reached the door and Mike grasped the handle to exit into the weak sunlight, Harry rested a hand on his elbow.

She was biting her lip again, and her eyes roamed his face for a second, as if she could see the answer to all her prayers there before her. "Thank you, Mike. I'll give you some time by yourselves. And try not to be too put off by his mood?"

With a shrug, Mike pushed through the door out into the soft, cool air. London's usually wet weather was tempered still from the previous day's rain, which filled the air with the thick, musty, dirty smell of damp concrete, and Mike drew it into his lungs like a smoker sucking in sweet nicotine. Some of the tension leaked out of his neck and back as he made his way into the middle of the tranquil oasis.

Many of the employees and patients sought out the quiet of the sprawling lawn and flower beds of the hidden courtyard. The sight of birds and bees and the occasional squirrel going about the business of survival amidst the riot of colourful blooms on bush, tree, and stalk seemed to fill every body that entered the garden with a serenity necessary to continue working in the chaos of a work-a-day hospital. Walking through the miniature meadow never failed to loosen tension-tight backs or roiling minds.

Seated on one of the benches made of recycled plastics that had been recently added to the garden beneath certain trees, was a hunched figure, hands clasped between bent knees, watching a squirrel chewing on something in its paws. Both man and rodent tilted their heads in short, barely noticeable twitches as they regarded each other. When the squirrel finished its morsel, it sat up higher on its hind legs, front paws against its thin, white-furred chest, and chittered softly.

An answering sound came from somewhere, and Mike's brows came together as he watched the squirrel make another noise, its tiny jaw trembling. Another sound, an exact echo, came from the same direction, though the animal's jaw made no motion. Tentatively, the squirrel weaved closer to the man, who slowly opened his hands and held out what seemed to be half of a pecan pinched between his left thumb and forefinger. Something, fear or anticipation, pulled the air taut for a long moment as man and animal sat waiting. It dissipated abruptly as the squirrel snatched the nut from the man's fingers and scampered off in that strange, gravity-defying bounce all squirrels use to move about.

A cool breeze ruffled Stamford's hair, and half a second later the man's head snapped up and towards the doctor like a hound on a scent. Mike approached him steadily, observing the way the man rubbed his palms along his thighs and slowly rose to his feet. It might have been nervousness, or perhaps embarrassment, but Stamford did not know enough about the man as a person to form a concrete conclusion. They stopped on the path about 3 feet apart, and cast an examining glance over one another.

Doctor John H Watson shared his sister's thin-lipped mouth and ears, and his eyes held a similar shape, but that was about where the resemblance stopped. With a square shaped face, strongly jawed, John was the rugged pit bull terrier to Harry's primped poodle. He might have been a few inches taller than Harry's 5'3" of height, but something in the way he carried himself made him seem taller than his average stature. Broad, sturdy shoulders set in military straightness were all that could be noted about his frame besides the fact that his torso was probably as square as his face.

A baggy, pale grey, hooded sweatshirt with a fouled anchor in deep navy blue embroidered over the chest hid the lines of his actual form, and oversized jeans continued the deception. Years of burning sunshine reflected off desert sand had bleached his hair to ash-blond flecked with steel-grey, and weathered his skin to the consistency and hue of bourbon-tinted lambskin.

He might have had a face as expressive as Harry's, but military training gave him the control she lacked. Only his eyes, quietly ferocious as a snow leopard, with the guarded flatness of a slate stone, gave any hint that there might still be fiery purpose buried somewhere inside his weary, wary stance.

"Doctor Mike Stamford," Mike extended his right hand firmly, "pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson."

The muscle in John's jaw ticked a moment, and his eyebrows twitched towards each other as he looked at the hand extended towards him in friendship. He slipped his right hand out of the front pocket of his hoodie and grasped the hand stretched towards him in a firm, but not testing, grip. He did not speak, but his tongue did briefly wet his lower lip as he looked back up into Mike's eyes and nodded.

"I don't know if she told you, but Harry gave me your whole file." Stamford held up the manilla folder he'd just mentioned. There was a slight widening in John's eyes at the sight. Mike thought he heard the sound of a distant rumble of thunder as he continued speaking. "I work for the Department of Defence here, and I explained to her that if you did, in fact, consent to being my patient I would be required to hand over the basic scientific parts of your file to our R and D division. I can redact a lot of the personal information by citing doctor-patient confidentiality, but I cannot let the rest of this get swept into obscurity. Not if I want to keep my job. My employers would probably charge me with treason or something if I hid it and they found out about it." The grumbling, thunder-like sound seemed to be getting louder, and Mike noticed John's jaw clenching and unclenching. "Is that," he swallowed loudly, "are you growling?"

The sound cut off abruptly, and Stamford's eyes widened. John licked his lips and let out a gusty breath as he squeezed his eyes shut. After a taut silence, Watson chewed on his lower lip as his brows came sheepishly together. In a voice that rasped slightly he simply offered, "Sorry."

"It's fine I just," Mike rubbed the back of his head with the hand not holding the folder, "just wasn't sure I was actually hearing that or not."

John rubbed the line of his bottom lip with the edge of his left pointer finger, then ran his left hand through his wind-messed, short cropped hair. His eyes darted back and forth along the skyline visible above the building, "I don't always realize I'm doing it."

"Well, anyway," Mike gave the man a jovial grin; no harm done. "I told Harry that I'd only take you on as a patient and do all that if you consented to it. If you don't, then you can go ahead and take this back and go on your merry way."

Stamford held out the folder as he had held out his hand, and John let the other end of it sit in his palm for a moment before releasing it again. Mike gave him another smile, which he was pleased to find reservedly returned. "Shall we go ahead and set up an appointment for tomorrow, then?"

"If you don't mind." Cordial as a blue-blood, John's voice, when it seemed to be working properly, was smooth as glass and held the barest hint of an American accent. "Harry has me running errands with her all day today, so a break tomorrow would be most welcome." Each word was spoken with deliberate enunciation, whether that was by design to hide his accent or due to some lingering trauma from a brain injury, Mike was unsure.

"I'll bet. I'll see you in tomorrow around, say, eleven?"

"Certainly."

They turned and slowly made their way back towards the hospital door, and Mike took silent note of an awkward limp that seemed to plague John when he walked. There was no sign of it while he stood at near-attention before the nurse's desk as they solidified his appointment. It appeared again when Harry popped out of the ladies room and dragged him behind her out the door.

Once safely ensconced back in his office, Mike flipped open his desk drawer and lifted out his datalet. He held the device in his hands, feeling the weight of it, before setting it aside. Rising again, he lifted John's file and made his way out to the copy machine, where he duplicated the files once and snatched up another manilla folder to hold them. Back in the confines of his office, he took a large marker and dutifully blacked out as much of the personal information he could. Using his datalet he scanned the redacted file and sent it via email to the R&amp;D Division of the Department of Defence for the Afro-Europe Coalition.

He placed the unmarked file into his personal briefcase, and slid the redacted copy into his patient files. The datalet beside him flashed at the corner, indicating the arrival of a return email. Reading the words of combined pleasure and disbelief, Stamford chewed on his lower lip and wondered what the future could possibly bring.

* * *

If Stamford had known several months ago what the future would bring, he would have slapped himself on the shoulder and taken himself out for a celebratory drink. John Watson appeared reserved on the surface, but beneath the layer of time needed to reach an understanding of the man, Watson was a friendly, engaging individual with a sarcastic wit and a backlog of frankly ridiculous war stories which he often told in such a straightforward but descriptive manner held his audience captive. Stamford had never become such a close friend with someone in such a short time.

By two months into their acquaintance, John was a gracious fourth person in Mike's bi-weekly poker nights with the other two teaching doctors at the hospital. Watson was neither a sore loser, nor an ungenerous winner. He was also always willing to buy a round on any pub nights that randomly managed to happen when the stars aligned just right for 'the boys' to find themselves out early from work with a whole night ahead of them.

It was on just one of those pub nights that Mike got his first glimpse of the steel beneath John's almost bucolic amiability.

They were just arriving at a newly relaunched pub, trying to switch up their routine a bit. John had just pulled up in his perpetually clean car, a midnight blue Suzuki, and joined Mike and his two best teaching cohorts on the pavement when a gunshot rang out through the air. The world seemed to stop, every person in earshot of the sound stalling mid-movement and staring in the direction they thought it was coming from.

Everything snapped back into motion as another shot rang out, and a man dashed out of the nearby alley as if his feet were on fire. Two Provosts, already on the chase, followed in his frantic footsteps; hunting hounds on the trail of a fox. The criminal turned and fired again, and one of the Provosts lurched backwards and fell. Passers-by on the pavement, onlookers, and a few pub patrons shouted or screamed, speaking a mile a minute into their blue-tooth headsets as they tried to get through to the emergency lines. All of that Mike might have noticed, if he hadn't been staring in dumbfounded awe at John Watson.

The man Stamford watched sprint to the downed officer, and crouch beside him, was Doctor John Watson, Combat Medic. In a sharp, even voice laced with the very essence of higher-rank, John ordered the officer's still-mobile partner to continue the chase. There wasn't even a moment of hesitation in response to that order, and the uninjured officer snapped back into motion, darting away as he shouted into his radio for backup.

Mike stumbled quickly forward as John pressed his hand hard against the injured officer's wound. One of their drinking companions, Dr Stephen Marsh, also joined him beside the men on the ground. John glanced up at them in the middle of gently assuring the officer that he would be fine. The officer, who's last name was apparently Morales according to John, was practically choking but seemed alert enough.

"What is it?" Dr Marsh's voice wavered into the high-pitch territory of borderline panic. "Punctured lung? Severed artery?"

"Pneumothorax, just a sucking chest wound," Dr Watson stated in the same sort of tone one might have answered the question 'what are we having for dinner?'. "Mike, I need you to take the keys out of my pocket, open the hood of my car, and get me the tube for the wiper fluid. Stephen, you're going to go inside and get me a bottle of straight whiskey, the more alcoholic the better, and a bottle of water."

When they hesitated, Dr Watson glared up at them through navy-dark eyes and spat, "Now."

Stamford wasn't sure what was in that voice, but he immediately dropped to a knee and shoved his hand into John's front jacket pocket, and Stephen bolted into the pub as if hyenas were on his heels. It was a real trick, that voice, Mike smirked to himself as he opened the bonnet of John's car and extracted the requested tube. Even if he hadn't been used to taking orders from a superior doctor in his university days, he still would have obeyed the order without question.

They might have done it a thousand times; Stephen returned with both the whiskey and the water bottle, just as Mike arrived with the plastic tubing. The nod of acknowledgement John bestowed on them was encouraging, even if his face was still set in stony calm. "Mike, I want you to pour the whiskey over and through the tube, and Stephen I need you to pour out some of the water in that bottle until it's half full."

Both men obeyed, and Mike marvelled that John was able to keep his voice so even with all the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and even though his American accent had thickened, Watson still spoke uniformly enough to be understood. Morales was beginning to struggle even harder to breathe, and John bent closer to him, keeping the officer's eyes fixed in a powerful stare. Mike handed the tube over John's right shoulder, watching as it trembled in the air. Stephen held out the half-empty bottle, which shook like a leaf in a wind storm.

Mountain-solid, Watson reached for one end of the tube and jammed it into the hole in Morales's chest. The officer moaned in pain, and a soft hissing sound escaped from the hose. "Sorry about that," John offered the officer, then looked up at Mike. "Put the other end of the tube into the water in the bottle."

Bubbles flowed out of the tube as soon as it was plunged beneath the water's surface. Stephen stared at the bottle as if it were a magic trick, just as the flashing lights and siren of an ambulance shrieked around a corner. Morales took a semi-deep breath without coughing. Marsh's mouth opened as his eyes widened in awestruck surprise, "It's a God-damn water seal."

"Do what you can with what you've got," John seemed to be quoting something, though who or what Mike was unsure. He took the bottle out of Stephen's quaking hand and gestured to the pavement behind them with a wave of his hand. "You two might wanna get out of the way of the ambulance. I'm gonna ride along. Make sure you lock up my car, okay?"

A panda car slid to a stop a half second before the ambulance did, and a grey-haired Provost with the shoulder patches of a Marshal hopped out to land heavily on his knees beside John. The paramedics slid out of the back of their rig, equipment in hand, and joined them as well. John sat back to give them room to work, and his voice cut through the sirens and chaos like a hot saw through ice.

"Tension pneumothorax due to trauma from a bullet fired from a small-caliber weapon. Handgun, probably a Sig, didn't seem heavy enough to be a Desert Eagle. I have a makeshift water seal in place but I can already see blood draining into the bottle. Let's move, his BP is at least 160 over 90 and climbing."

Between the Marshal, John, and the two EMTs, they hoisted Provost Morales up on a back board, then jogged him to the ambulance and pushed him onto the stretcher inside. John hopped in with the ambulance crew and Mike watched him disappear behind the doors as they closed. The Marshal slammed a fist against the back of the rig, and it sped off with the siren echoing off the walls. With a glance down to the keys in his hand, Mike gave a shake of his head and bolted for John's car. There was no way he was going to miss the other end of this incident.

John's car was awkward to drive, with the wheel being on the left side like all American cars, but Mike managed not to crash following the ambulance. He even managed to park the car straight in a spot that might have opened through kismet it was so convenient. Stamford jumped out, barely remembered to lock the doors over his shoulder, and rushed into the accident and emergency room just in time to see John disappear behind the doors of an operating room. The way the hospital workers seemed to be tripping over themselves to help made a grim smile of appreciation appear on Mike's face.

Half-an-hour of waiting later, Mike was sipping a hot cup of coffee from the cafeteria and chatting with the ladies at the nurses' station when the grey-haired Provost Marshal came barrelling into the waiting room. He was flanked by Officer Morales' partner, holding a battered looking prisoner, who was shoved ungracefully into a chair. As the Marshal approached the station, a grim expression on his tired, aged face, Stamford readied himself to be as useful as possible to help keep things running smooth.

"There was an officer," the Marshal began, but the round-faced nurse manning the sign-in roster cut him off with a smile.

"He's still in surgery, Marshal, but I believe he should make a full recovery." Her voice was sugar-sweet, and her smile just as kind. "Luckily there was a doctor already on scene."

"Bugger luck," the Marshal grunted, leaning heavily on the counter, "it was a bloody miracle."

Mike moved closer to him and shook his head, "Nothing more than being in the right place at the right time, sir." He held out his hand to the Provost superior and beamed a smile. "I'm Doctor Mike Stamford, Marshal. The man who saved your officer is a patient and friend of mine, a Doctor John Watson."

"Provost Marshal Greg Lestrade, at your service, Doctor," the Marshal pumped their hands twice in a firm shake. "Is he still about, your friend?"

"He's in the OR with your man," the nurse piped up from her seat while pushing two packets of paperwork over the edge of the counter. "I assume you'd like us to take a look at your prisoner too, sir?"

"Yes, thank you," Lestrade nodded and dragged the folders into his hands. "I'll keep my officer posted with him, but if you could call up some security, that would be helpful as well."

"Already on their way, sir."

Greg gave her an exhausted smile of gratitude, and then beckoned for Mike to follow him over to where his officer was standing guard over their mulishly silent prisoner. Judging by the heavy chewing motion of the criminal's jaw, he was less than impressed with his situation, and if it weren't for his hands being cuffed behind his back he would probably have taken off ages ago.

"It's amazing to me," Greg mumbled as he dropped into a chair and propped open a file on his knee, "how we can have all this fantastic technology and I still have to fill out bloody paperwork."

Mike chuckled softly, "The hypocrisy of the medical field – spend more money updating your phone and intercom system than you do on reporting software. Even my patient files are on paper."

"Criminals are less likely these days to even consider paperwork, Doctor," The other officer's deep bass tones carried over the din of the waiting room as he glanced over his shoulder at Stamford. "Most are accomplished hackers and would find breaking into your computer much easier than breaking into your office. Your less-advanced filing system is actually more secure in this day an age than you think."

"Cheers for making me feel like my carpal tunnel might actually be worth it, Officer." Mike smirked and lifted his coffee cup in a mock toast.

The barest twitch of the man's lips was about as much a show of appreciation as Mike was going to get. He turned his dark eyes back to the prisoner, "Take Mr Palenczek here for an example. He's a nurse aide for a very accomplished podiatrist in Notting Hill. His employer has all of his files backed up in a virtual database - accessible to anyone with a password. Mister Palenczek is a computer enthusiast, and it only took him three tries to worm his way into the account. If Dr Svenson had physical files instead of just digitized ones, Mister Palenczek wouldn't have been able to access them remotely, and would have been caught by any of the cameras located in and around the building. His little scheme of murder and mayhem wouldn't have even started." The officer looked pleased with himself and said to Lestrade, "See? Holmes isn't the only one who can do it."

Palenczek, a rat-faced individual with watery, pale blue eyes and greasy looking blond hair moved as if to stand up, but the burly officer standing watch over him just glared down at him with his broad arms crossed over his wide chest. The glare on this officer's face was a mixture of threat and hatred, not surprising considering Palenczek had shot his partner. Besides, the Provost had at least half a foot of height on him; defiance was all well and good, but it would do nothing but hurt his chances in the end.

Lestrade groaned in exasperation at the display, but was cut off by the sound of someone nearby clearing their throat.

John Watson stood a bit to the side of their group, his white zip-up hoodie and light blue jeans spattered and painted with blood. In one hand he held a blue rubber glove with the wrist end tied off. "I'm looking for the officer in charge?"

Stamford stepped a bit forward and gave John the kind of breathless smile worthy of greeting a war-hero who'd just shown his skills were more than an idle embellishment to a CV. "John, this is Provost Marshal Lestrade, he's the man in charge. Marshal Lestrade this is Doctor John Watson."

Lestrade rose to his feet, taking John's offered hand in both of his own and shaking it gratefully, "Thank you for what you did for Morales. Carlos is a great officer."

"It was nothing. Just doing my duty as a physician." John did not seem flustered by the praise, but his cheeks did turn a slightly darker shade of his normal colouration. He held out the glove in his hand, "The bullet is in here. I didn't have anything else to put it in."

The Provost, the criminal, and Lestrade shared a surprised glance, and the Marshal gladly took custody of the bullet by sliding the glove into a plastic evidence bag he retrieved from his coat pocket. "Thank you, Doctor. You didn't have to do that, but it's definitely going to be helpful."

John slid his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and shrugged while tapping the toe of his bad leg behind him.

Lestrade blurted out, "That was some quick thinking you did out there, Doctor. Don't think I've ever seen anything like it."

Watson's head tilted a bit to the side, his slate eyes dancing between Lestrade's and Mike's faces. "Like I said, just doing my duty. You can be assured Provost Officer Morales will make a full recovery. The bullet missed hitting anything vital so he should be back on his feet in no time."

"Again, my thanks to you," Lestrade held out his hand again, and John gave it a firm shake.

A small chill rose up Mike's back. He turned as the doors of the A&amp;E hissed loudly open as a voice he would recognize anywhere barked out, "Well he wouldn't have gotten sodding shot if you had done your triple-damned job and subdued the bloody idiot when I told you too!"

Every eye in the room turned to take in the sight of a very livid tall man, his slim back ramrod straight beneath a coat that had flared dramatically with his sharp turn towards the subject of his ire. Standing just barely outside the door was a belligerent looking, unnaturally tanned, largely muscled man dressed like a villain's bodyguard from a bad television serial. A large, meaty, brass-knuckled fist rose up to point a finger into the slightly taller, thinner man's face. Mike stared, slightly wide-eyed, at the unfolding situation and beside him Marshal Lestrade groaned like an unwilling child being told it was time to go to the dentist.

"You listen to me you pompous arse," the tanned man grumbled, "my job is to make sure your scrawny neck don't get snapped while you frolic 'round the bloody city. Chasin' down crim'nal's isn't part of that description!"

Lestrade hid his face behind one of the packets of paperwork in his hands. Mike took a slow step back to put the Marshal between himself and the argument. John - one pale eyebrow raised in what might have been either amusement or intrigue - cocked his head to one side like a curious bird.

"He pulled the gun on me first, you illiterate imbecile! I told you he had the damned weapon before he even showed it! You should have grabbed for the gun, not rugby tackled the breath out of me!"

As the bodyguard began to shout back a retort that was little more than a string of repetitive insults, John leaned a little closer to Lestrade and asked in a soft voice, "Are you going to do something about this?"

"Not really," was Lestrade's exasperated reply, which was nearly lost beneath the tall man's scathing riposte to his bodyguard's profanity. "It's nearly impossible to stop Holmes when he gets going like this."

The shouting match degraded into something more akin to school-yard name-calling, and Mike could hear beneath it the rustling of frightened witnesses trying to decided whether to flee, and nurses trying to unobtrusively summon security. John shifted forward, and Stamford could just barely make out the slow rumble of John growling under his breath. Lestrade set his jaw and glanced around the room, gauging how much damage he could do by shouting to defuse the situation.

The decision about what to do to stop the slowly escalating, unfriendly debate was made by John. Watson darted forward, snagged both arguing men by their elbows, and gave them just enough of a tug to get them to step out of each other's personal space. Placing his short, stocky body directly between the two, John held them both at arms length and snarled in clipped, crisp consonants, "That's enough out of both of you! This is a hospital for God's sake, not Parliament!"

Silence descended so quickly, Mike fancied he could hear both men's teeth click as their mouths snapped shut. The taller man looked down at John as if surprised to see him there, and the broad bodyguard stared down at the shorter doctor with a poisonous glare. Despite the size of the men he had forced apart, John looked as immovable as granite, and as disappointed as a school teacher.

"You," John's eyes darted to the bodyguard, "are going to go outside and take some deep breaths of fresh air to cool down." As the broad man opened his mouth to argue, John turned his eyes to the taller man and cut off any chance of disagreement by saying, "And you are going to go sit down in one of those chairs by the Provost Marshal. I assume you're here to speak with him, are you not?"

This time the tall man opened his mouth, but before he could utter a sound, John went from solid rock to 5'7" of pure Military Officer, turning back to the bodyguard with a sharp growl and authoritatively barking,"Why are you still here?"

Without further delay, the bodyguard backed up a few steps, eyes wary, and did as he was told, walking back out the sliding doors and onto the pavement. Watson turned back to the taller man sans snarl and simply indicated the direction of the Provost Marshal with a hand gesture. A long moment followed in which the tall man's pale eyes intensely studied the short man before him, then one of his dark brows rose as if intrigued.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Oh, bugger," Lestrade groaned, sounding completely exhausted and utterly finished with life in general.

"I'm sorry, what?" John's head cocked to the side curiously.

"It's a simple question, really, where did you serve – Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

Leaning his head back just slightly, in order to better give his tall interrogator a once-over, John responded, "Afghanistan. How did you know?"

"Well, everything about you fairly screams military – the haircut, the way you hold yourself, the way you bark an order and expect it to be followed." As he spoke, the tall man pivoted gracefully and strode over to where Lestrade seemed to be trying unsuccessfully to beat his own brains out with a handful of insurance paperwork. "Then there are your tan lines – no tan above the wrist or below the collar means you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Also, let's not forget the fact that your clothing is covered in blood but you seem more than able to completely ignore it. Your accent? American, though you're doing a wonderful job hiding it. So, American, military, recently returned from deployment. Where has there been any sign of military action? Afghanistan or Iraq."

The look John cast Mike's way was equal parts wary and bewildered. Stamford only managed to shrug before Lestrade grunted and grumbled, "Sherlock, do me a favour and shut up before I have to keep someone from bludgeoning you to death? Me, for example?"

Mr Holmes gave the Marshal a frown paired with a dismissive wave of one pale, large hand. "Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade. By the by, why do you have our victim's brother in custody?"

This statement was greeted with a number of exclamations, two of incredulity, one of surprise, an 'I bloody told you', and an odd inquisitive noise that made everyone give Dr Watson strange look. John licked his lips and looked mildly apologetic. Holmes narrowed his verdigris eyes at Watson but asked no questions.

"Mr Palenczek here is guilty of little more than a bit of hacking to create false prescriptions to feed his and his flatmate's opiate habits. Your killer, the same man who attacked Provost Morales, is Mr Palenczek's flatmate, who at this very moment is probably skipping town. If you managed to recover the bullet, which I doubt, it would have turned up in the system matching the ones used in the other murders in the area, and a home invasion incident wherein the gun that was used to wound an officer of the law was originally used to protect Mr Palenczek's flat from a burglar, and it is registered to his flatmate, ex-Army Private Thomas Holten."

Sherlock looked smug at the Provost and Marshal's confused glances at one another. "Mr Holten was returning to the flat and, when he saw you dragging out Mr Palenczek, bolted the same moment that our hacker here did. I stopped Mr Holten at the end of the alley. Mr Palenczek ran passed us in his escape, and Mr Holten opened fire on us just as Officers Morales and Masterson came down the alleyway. They took off after Holten, and Brutus and I took off after Palenczek after, I got that oaf off of me, of course."

"Wait, Brutus?" Lestrade asked.

Holmes didn't even pause to answer, "Both Mr Palenczek and Mr Holten have a friend in common, and they both headed to the apartment of a Mr Stephan Bridger, within whose flat Officer Morales caught up with Mr Palenczek, but not Mr Holten who fled through the flat and out the back into the depths of London. I would have gone after him myself, but neither Brutus nor Officer Masterson here would hear of it. I traced Mr Holten as far through the back alleys as I could until Brutus made a nuisance of himself by shouting and calling attention to me, thus allowing Mr Holten to escape. Again."

Lestrade tried asking again, "Seriously though, who's Brutus?"

"My bodyguard," Mr Holmes' expression implied he could not believe just how stupid Mr Lestrade was being in his inability to understand such a simple thing as a name.

The Marshal looked genuinely puzzled, as did Officer Masterson. Mike felt a look of confusion settle on his face as well, and dared to ask in a quiet, subdued voice, "I thought his name was Bob?"

Holmes looked momentarily unsettled, "Is it?"

"Actually it's Bart," a deep, gruff voice called attention to itself, and the little group turned their eyes to the bodyguard, who had apparently calmed enough to return inside the hospital. He pointed at Holmes again and said, "And by the way, I bloody quit. Find your own way back to your shit flat, you useless freak."

With those words, the large man turned and strutted indignantly out of the hospital again. Holmes shrugged, and turned to Lestrade with a strangely unsettling smile on his face. The Provost Marshal frowned.

"Not a bloody chance in hell, Sherlock." A half-second later, a superior smirk blossomed on the Marshal's face. "By the by, I just so happen to have that bullet, thanks to the good doctor, of course."  
When Lestrade indicated John with a nod of his head, Sherlock raised a very expressive eyebrow and locked his observant eyes on the smaller man. John answered his silent question with an equally silent raise of his own brow and of his chin. The stand-off might have continued, but Lestrade dangled the bag holding the gloved bullet in front of Holmes' face, distracting him from what might have been a litany of unnecessarily invasive deductions.

Sherlock held the bag up to the light, studying the dark blob within the confines of dual layers of plastic as if it might hold the secret to the universe. He handed it back to Lestrade with a sigh, and demanded, "Give me your datalet, Lestrade."

"No," the Marshal replied in an almost bored tone. Any further commands were nullified as a nurse came out to collect the prisoner and both officers and lead them into a secluded room.

Holmes turned to Mike with that same, unsettling smile. Doctor Stamford shook his head, holding up his hands in a sort of surrender, "Sorry, Sherlock, it's in my car, which is back at the pub."

"Use mine."

Both Sherlock and Mike glanced over at Doctor Watson, who held out a battered looking datalet in Sherlock's direction. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike could see Holmes' face go blank. It looked surprised, in an abstract way, as if Sherlock had no idea how to react.

Holmes blinked twice, then took the offered device with a softly spoken, "Thank you."

John gave him a simple nod, and turned to give Mike one of the oddly expressive eyebrow raises the American was capable of – when he bothered showing expressions. Mike felt another chill creep up his spine as, in his peripheral vision, he noticed Sherlock gave the datalet in his hand a quick visual scan. Holmes returned the gadget to its rightful owner by shoving it back into John's hands and simply walking off in the same direction that Lestrade and the prisoner had been led.

No parting shot, no after-the-fact deductions, nothing but a silent walk off through the hospital corridor. The chill that had been running up Mike Stamford's spine was now bouncing from his head to his feet as he looked at John Watson staring after Sherlock Holmes, with a furrowed brow drawn down over confused eyes. "What did he do?"

John glanced back at him, frowning, "It's just a text to a number. It says 'Oaf quit. Stranded at Bart's. Send car. Dash SH'. There's no response. Who was that, by the way?"

"That was Sherlock Holmes," Mike felt a peculiar grin tug on his features as an idea coalesced in his mind. "John, I have a proposal for you, if you'll drive me back to the pub?"


	2. The Impossible Task

_AN: Hello again! I'm so happy all of you continue to join me in my rewrite. I'm so glad you are all so accepting and welcoming. Thank you so much for reading. I hope I can continue keeping up with your encouragement!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock, or any of the canon characters herein. I bow before the talented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat for the privilege of borrowing their characters for a bit of fun. Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing them with the world._

**Chapter 2 – The Impossible Task**

_"...King tries impossible task - wishing to be scientific man who know all modern things... He will only tear himself in two, trying to be something he can never be!" - Kralahome, Roger's and Hammerstein's 'The King and I'_

With World War 3 over with and the Persian Land Conflict in full swing, Mycroft Holmes, head of Defence for the Afro-European Coalition, had more things to worry about than keeping an eye on his wayward little brother. Hell, even without the miniature land war currently ravaging the New Persian Empire he should have had more than enough on his proverbial plate to occupy his days. Unfortunately, worry for his brother's safety seemed determined to present itself as the most pressing of matters this side of the twenty-first century.

He read his brother's most recent message for a fourth time and covered his eyes with a hand that shook slightly with fatigue. A normal day was a trial in and of itself; the energy necessary these days to keep the peace between friendly nations while still keeping an eye on his own nation's interests, so as not to be stabbed in the back, was as mentally fatiguing as running a decathlon would be physically exhausting. When adding his younger sibling's inability to endear himself to anyone - Sherlock's eccentric personality and habits, his weakness for dismissing other people as little more than irksome gnats on the flypaper of his life – long enough to establish some sort of respect to the mix was melting his brain to so much mush that some days it was all he could do not to drink himself to death.

The door of his office opened with the hushed sound of wood against carpet, and he moved his hand slowly from his face to see his visitor. Standing at the front of his desk, perfectly centred, was his personal assistant. She held her datalet underneath her arm and a silver tray in her perfectly manicured hands. Upon the tray sat a blue and white china teapot with a tiny bit of steam curling up from the spout, and a matching empty cup and saucer.

She was dressed in a black pant-suit and seemed shorter than usual, so she was probably wearing flats instead of her usual knee-spraining heels. Without speaking she placed the tray on the top, centre edge of his desk and then placed down her datalet beside it. The handle of the teapot she gripped in a hand with nails painted a matte burgundy, and poured out a stream of dark, shimmering tea until the cup was nearly full. No sugar was added, his diet would not allow it, but she did pull a small vial of golden-coloured brandy from somewhere within her jacket and added it to the liquid in the cup. He answered her understanding smirk with a small, weary smile of his own.

As she placed the cup on the blotter before him, she stated softly, "Good evening, Sir. I took the liberty of preparing a night report. Consider it my permission for you to have a late morning tomorrow."

"I'm afraid, my dear, that a late morning tomorrow will be impossible." He tapped his datalet with a finger, "It seems Bartholomew Randolph has finally gotten enough of his charge and has abandoned his post."

His assistant rolled her eyes and let a loud puff of air out through her plump, cherry-glossed lips. "That's the fourth Guardian this month!"

"Indeed." Mycroft took a grateful sip of tea. "Since my brother is bound and determined to be obstinate, I need you to send over a car and four of our most competent and least friendly agents to gather him up and watch over him. Notify the Provost General that they shall have to do without my brother's expertise for the foreseeable future. This time he's under house arrest, and if we cannot find a suitable replacement he can rot there."

"Shall I authorise the use of physical force if necessary, Sir?" His assistant asked timidly.

"God yes." He answered forcefully. As she tapped his orders into her inter-office messenger application, he could see her glancing at him up through her full eyelashes. He relented a bit beneath her worried scrutiny. "Tell them not to do any permanent damage?"

"Of course, Sir." She finished tapping out the message and gave her screen a quick swipe with the stylus. "Shall I begin my report?"

"Yes. You might as well, since you have it already prepared. We shall forego tomorrow's report and focus instead on gathering up applicants for the vacant, and highly undesirable, position of my brother's Guardian." Leaning back in his chair, Mycroft lifted his cup in one hand and rubbed his temple with the other.

She waited half a second before beginning, "A new possible treaty has been put forth by the Ru-Asian Alliance in regards to the Persian Conflict. I have taken the liberty of forwarding it to your business email account. The Austro-Pacific Collective has sent us a peace offering in the form of several documents explaining their new research into Cybernetic technology. The American Legion has also sent us several documents, though more in the spirit of scientific curiosity than the interest of peace. I took the liberty of forwarding one of them to your business account, as well as Research and Development, because it pertains to new breakthroughs in Genetic manipulation."

"Genetic manipulation," he repeated softly, brow furrowing in concentration. "There was a mentioning of just such a thing several months ago, was there not?"

"Yes, Sir. Doctor Stamford sent a redacted patient file to the Research and Development Department – it belonged to an unnamed American soldier that is now in his care. The American Legion boasts some new successes in their now in-progress 'Super Soldier' initiative." She wrinkled her nose at the unoriginal project title. "There are currently seven new ten-man units of 'Gen-A', or Genetically Anomalous, soldiers being deployed to Afghanistan to join in the conflict. Dr Stamford's patient was one of them. I have endeavoured to discover who this man is, but doctor-patient confidentiality forbids Dr Stamford to reveal his information. The American Legion is playing things very close to the vest."

"Of course they are. See if you can place some more pressure on them. I should like to know their reasoning behind playing God. Message our Ambassador in South America if you must."

She nodded and made a notation on her screen. "That is all I have in regards to new international progressions. As for the Homefront, before the unfortunate incident with the murder, Master Holmes had finally managed to solve our present spy problem. Provost Marshal Gregson has arrested twelve New Persian and Ru-Asian operatives in London, Sussex, and Cambridge. He does, however, assure us that the case is not so much 'solved' as it is 'curbed for the time being'."

"Make a note to send Sherlock a fruit basket, and remember to sign it 'Sincerely - The Commonwealth'."

Her smirk of understanding made the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. A sharp, short beep from her datalet recalled her attention and she frowned down at the screen. As her brows drew down pensively, she stated, "Your brother has been collected from the hospital, Sir. He's apparently being extremely belligerent." One of her eyebrows rose, "It appears they have things well in hand though."

"Meaning?"

"They've tased him. Twice."

Mycroft groaned and slumped down in his seat, draining the rest of his tea in one depressed gulp. "I am not looking forward to having anything to do with Sherlock for the next month."

"Probably best to prepare not to have anything to do with him for at least a year at this point, Sir. He's the second most stubborn man I've ever met. He'll hold on to this anger for a long time."

Humming in agreement, Mycroft rose wearily from his chair and dragged his feet to his coat rack. He donned his coat and settled his umbrella over his arm before returning to lift up his own datalet. He paused as he rounded the corner of his desk and looked down into his assistant's eyes. "Just out of curiosity, who is the most stubborn man you've ever met?"

"You, of course, Sir." Her smile was equal parts teasing and sincere. "You would have to be, since you have yet to commit fratricide."

A smirk turned up the corner of his mouth a bare millimetre, "I'm still contemplating the ramifications. Please bring me a listing of potential Guardian candidates tomorrow afternoon? I think I will try to take a later morning tomorrow, if only to actually complete an eight hour night of sleep."

Her only answer was a graceful nod of the head as she looked down at her datalet when it beeped again.

* * *

The office of Dr Mike Stamford was clinical in its furnishings, but there was such a collection of personal detritus cluttering the walls and desk and shelves, that it was no wonder patients found it a comforting place. There were pictures of Stamford and his wife, his colleagues, and his students on every available surface in a myriad of different frames, or no frame at all. One wall was entirely taken up with various anatomical posters of every system in the body. Medical texts and journals mingled with psychological texts, hospital procedurals, fiction novels, and a few books on fishing. It projected a very intimate atmosphere, even though the space was broken up with a very clinically white, metal desk backed by a very broken-in leather office chair and the sort of firm waiting-room chairs patients were expected to occupy.

Instead of sitting in one of the chairs meant for consulting patients, she sat primly in the office chair behind the desk, a small stack of files in front of her. Dr Stamford himself was out of the room at the moment, presumably seeing to his appointments for the day. The toe of one of her patent leather shoes tapped rhythmically against the inside of the desk, making the loose handle of the bottom drawer rattle quietly as she read.

Seven possible candidates lay before her. The first in the pile was a Frenchman, a mercenary, and though his medical chart proclaimed him physically sound, there was something she didn't like about the possibility of 'anger issues' mentioned in his psychological profile. The second was a heavy-set African woman, whose psychological file was exemplary, and her intelligence was at a near genius level, but she was also diabetic, which might cause problems in the long run. She chewed her lip over the Czechoslovakian's and the Russian defector's charts – something about them both set her on edge, but considering their charts were fairly average with nothing particularly distressing mentioned anywhere, she wasn't sure how to explain her unease. As for the Israeli man and the Italian woman, both of whom were ex-military, her feelings were entirely neutral.

The seventh, literally the odd man out, was what really captured her attention. She had left it for last so that she could go over it with all the consideration it was due. After carefully going over each of the other files one by one, scanning them into her datalet and adding electronic highlights and notations for her employer to peruse at his own pace, she stacked all but the seventh into a pile and placed them on a corner of the desk. At last she placed the seventh file, unopened as of yet, in the centre of the oversized calendar Dr Stamford used in lieu of a blotter, and placed a hand on the cover. Pausing, she revisited her early morning conversation with Dr Stamford in her mind's eye.

_Arriving nearly an hour early for Stamford's usual arrival time, she was surprised to find the man already seated at his desk, leaning his chin on his hand and staring tiredly down at the small stack of files he had withdrawn at her direction last night. She knocked politely, and Mike started with a sheepish smile. He beckoned her in with a friendly wave of the hand, and stood up as she entered._

_"You're here early, Doctor," she observed._

_"Well, considering what happened last night," he scratched the side of his neck, as his voice faded off, his cheeks reddening as if he were embarrassed. Trying another avenue, he stated, "I came in early to pull the files you requested. I whittled it down to six, all of whom have never been exposed to Sherlock before, at least not that I'm aware. You can feel free to use my office to read them over, if you like."_

_"Thank you, Doctor, that's very kind of you. I'd be happy to take up your offer. I'd rather get my notes down in a timely fashion than have to rush them in the car. I was going to wait for you to come in, since I already picked up the psychological exams, but your being here already makes my morning a bit easier."_

_"That's me," he chuckled, "always willing to help out a fellow government employee."_

_Turning the office chair out in invitation, he sat the files down in the middle of the desktop as she settled into the seat. "Would you like me to bring you in a cup of tea?"_

_"No, thank you. I've already had my morning cup. I should be alright for the next hour or so before I head to the office."_

_Stamford hesitated at the edge of the desk, and wrung his hands together as his brow furrowed in agitation. She squinted at him, tapping a long-nailed finger against the manilla folders as she waited for him to speak. When he seemed disinclined to be bold, she asked, "Is there something else?"_

_"Well," he swallowed audibly, "I do have another file for your consideration. If you're willing of course." It took him a few nervous, jerky movements to retrieve a file from his cabinet. He fiddled with the edge of the folder for a moment before he handed it over. She noticed his hand trembled very lightly. "It's not one of the ones you asked for and it isn't one of the ones you already dismissed."_

_Such a vague statement caught her attention, and she read the name on the tab out loud, "Watson, John MD."_

_"Do you remember a few months ago I sent an email of a file to the R&amp;D department?"_

_Her eyes grew a little wide as she resisted tearing the file open in eagerness, "This is him? The American experimental?"_

_Mike's genial face twisted into an expression that seemed to try marrying grimacing in disgust with smiling fondly. It wasn't the best look. "I'm sure Sherlock didn't mention it, but last night John was the one that saved Provost Officer Morales' life. You can appeal to Marshal Lestrade if you want the details, but the gist of it is that Doctor Watson not only saved the life of an officer of the law, but he also faced down an irate Sherlock, and his Guardian at the time, without flinching. I saw it with my own eyes." He rubbed the back of his head in bewilderment, "I actually witnessed Sherlock walk away without a parting quip."_

_Both of her perfectly maintained eyebrows rose halfway up her forehead. After a quiet minute of contemplation, she simply stated, "Thank you, Doctor Stamford. I shall apply to Marshal Lestrade when I have a moment free."_

_He let out a breath as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "Thank you. I asked John last night if it was alright to put him forward for the position. He seemed," Stamford sputtered for a minute as he searched for an appropriate expression. "Well he seemed flattered, eager even, if you can believe it."_

_"Perhaps he's finding London a bit boring after being at war."_

_"No," Mike was frowning again. "I think he's actually eager to be doing something he'd find purposeful. And, well, I don't know but," the doctor shrugged helplessly. "Just something about seeing John and Sherlock last night, even after Sherlock deduced he'd been in Afghanistan. Something just, clicked in my head." He pursed his lips, looked her in the eyes and then added, with a bit of conviction in his tone, "I think John might actually be just what Sherlock needs. And vice versa."_

_"I will be sure to take that into consideration," she stated with a nod of dismissal. "Also, I will be sure to pass on your recommendation to Mr Holmes."_

_With a decisive bob of his head, he thanked her softly and quit the room. She placed her elbows on the desk and laced her fingers together before her mouth, staring down at the seventh file. It took her less than a second to reach a decision to call on the Marshal, and she stood her datalet on the desk before tapping out his video call code. It took four rings for him to answer._

_The grey-haired Provost Marshal had large bags under his eyes, and the creases of his shirt declared it to be the same one he had been wearing the previous day. He wore no tie, the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and his uniform jacket hung haphazardly over one side of the back of his chair._

_After blinking at her for a moment, he greeted, "Good morning, Ma'am. How can I help you?"_

_"Good morning, Marshal Lestrade. I'm sorry to disturb you, but Doctor Stamford directed me to appeal to you in regards to someone you met last night, a Doctor John Watson."_

_"Yes, Ma'am. He saved the life of Provost Morales by creating a water seal out of a water bottle and the tube from his car's windscreen wiper fluid. He even assisted in the surgery that removed the bullet from Morales' shoulder, and brought the intact bullet out to me and my team."_

_"Can you tell me your opinion of him?"_

_Lestrade frowned and leaned back in his rickety chair, rubbing his mouth and chin with his right hand as his brow furrowed in thought. He was silent for a very long time. She waited patiently for him to answer._

_Finally, he offered, "Mind you, I didn't exactly observe him for very long. He's obviously good in a crisis, and he must be worth his salt as a doctor if they didn't kick him out of the operating room." The Marshal lifted a coffee mug from somewhere out of the camera frame and brought it to his lips, taking a deep sip before tapping the finger of his right hand where he held it steady at the rim. "I was a little impressed with the way he diffused the situation with Mr Holmes and his Guardian when they arrived."_

_"Please elaborate."_

_She watched the muscle in his jaw twitch as he drummed his fingers against the side of his mug. He placed the cup down with an assertive thump. "What exactly is this line of inquiry about, Ma'am? If you're looking for something to use to discredit him or something," he quietened when she raised a finger to silence him._

_"Doctor Stamford has called Doctor Watson to my attention as a potential candidate for the position of Mr Sherlock Holmes' Guardian."_

_The Marshal sat back in his chair as if the breath had been knocked from his lungs. A look of shock had taken over his eyes, which quickly morphed into a look of intrigued consideration. Leaning forward again, he rested his jaw against his thumb and rubbed his bottom lip as he thought._

_Defeat etched itself into Lestrade's features and he placed his forehead against his palm. When he looked up again, his head hanging a little between his shoulders, he looked as if he'd aged ten years. "I've known Sherlock for over five years. He's a good man, in my opinion, and he might even be a great one some day if he started solving crimes for the sake of justice, instead of as interesting puzzles." He sighed heavily as he leaned back in his chair again, staring down at the edge of his desk. "I've seen him high as a kite, and I've seen him go through Guardians like a runaway lorry."_

_Lestrade looked up into her image, a determined and hopeful spark lighting his dark eyes, "Last night I saw a man stand between two of the tallest blokes in my acquaintance and diffuse a very tense situation with words alone, and not even a threat of violence. I saw Sherlock deduce the fact that he had served in the military, and the man didn't even threaten to strangle him. I think his foresight in saving the bullet from Morales' shoulder actually impressed Holmes. He's got as good a chance as any to make an impression, and a better chance than anyone else to stay on for more than a damned week."_

_Nodding cordially, she stated, "Thank you, Provost Marshal. Your input is definitely valuable. Enjoy your day, if you can."_

_"Your welcome, Ma'am. Good day."_

As she collected her thoughts and made a few notes of her own regarding the Marshal's testimony, she sent an email to the Surveillance department for the closed circuit television footage from the officer-involved shooting incident, and the confrontation at the hospital. By the time the footage arrived, she had already gone through all of Doctor Watson's biological information and physical statistics. She read through the psychological information before she turned her attention to the footage.

For someone who suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, the stocky doctor rushed into the fray to Provost Morales' side with the kind of speed expected of a combat veteran. There was no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing in his reactions. The people around him obeyed his orders as if by instinct, and there was never a moment in which they argued with him.

When he arrived in the hospital, he seemed to switch tactics and offered his services to the surgeon-on-call, who seemed to be almost grateful for an extra pair of experienced hands. They worked swiftly and efficiently, almost dancing around each other. The resident surgeon lifted the bullet from the wound with forceps, and dropped it into an open glove that Doctor Watson held out. As Watson tied it off, the surgeon gave him a perfectly friendly nod of gratitude, a very graceful dismissal, as he began to close up the wounded man.

The footage flowed seamlessly to the argument between Sherlock and Bartholomew Randolph. She could see the tension mounting in the room, from the shuffling of frightened civilians in the waiting room to the nurses milling behind the counter of their station. Watson's swift, decisive intervention brooked no argument from either the belligerent Bartholomew nor the always obstinate Holmes.

When the video reached the point of Sherlock walking off without a word, she was stumped. In all the time she had been Mr Holmes' personal assistant, and thus been exposed to his capricious younger sibling, there had never been a moment where Sherlock Holmes neglected to quit a room without a parting shot. It was anomalous enough that she wasn't even sure it actually had happened. She immediately forwarded the footage to her employer's inbox, along with her scans of the files and her electronic notes. With a double check of the desktop in front of her, she swept up the files and her datalet, and took her leave of the room.

In the car on her way into the office, she mocked up a schedule for her employer for the next month. The candidates would have to be brought in for a comprehensive medical and physical examination, and of course an interview with both Misters Holmes would have to be coordinated. That would take some preparation – a second driver would be needed to cart Mr Holmes the younger to the interviews and back to his current flat, and she would need to find an extra few agents to relieve the four men keeping Sherlock under house arrest. She would also need some men to ensure Mr Holmes the younger did not slip away during the interviews.

She spent most of the ride sliding meetings around her employer's schedule, and sending messages through voice contacts and emails to the other parties to confirm the changes. At least she could feel accomplished in that when she arrived at the office. Organization was a skill she took pride in, and inserting her will over the schedule of others in order to make her own employer's less taxing was a rather calming exercise.

With a morning greeting to the security officers of the building as they moved her through the checkpoints, she strode into the elevator, swiped her key card and watched the doors close before her. As was her normal routine, she admired her outfit for the day in the reflection of the silver doors. She had chosen a brand new camisole edged in red lace beneath a designer cardigan of black cashmere, and a knee-length pencil skirt of black cotton. Black pumps with a matte finish gave her the height and posture she needed to look some of the oiliest, smarmiest politicians and secretaries in the world in the eye.

Giving her reflection a smirk as the doors opened, she strode out into the office hallway. Ignoring the rest of the workers in their cubicles, always so focused they never seemed to notice her passing, she made her way through the twisting layout to the office break room. Once there, she filled and plugged in the electric kettle.

While the water boiled, she pulled out a plain, black tray made of patent leather with a crocodile skin print, and located the unembellished white tea set her employer preferred for days that would be spent working at arduous tasks. In her opinion, that tea set had seen far too much use since Mr Holmes the younger had begun assisting the Provosts of London at their work. She added a bag of Black Assam tea to the teapot and filled it with the boiling water from the kettle. It was allowed to steep for about five minutes while she filled the sugar bowl with white cubes, and a small pitcher with whole milk.

Placing her datalet and the files under her arm, she lifted the platter in her hands and made her way to the door. It predictably opened just before she reached it, as one of the desk agents blearily entered the room to start up the coffee machine. She moved out into the maze of cubicles and wound her way around to her boss's door.

The secretary just beyond his doorway, a petite blonde by the name of Maria, smiled at her before getting up to open the door. "He's running a bit late today, Ma'am. He sent me a message that he would be here ten minutes ago, but he still hasn't come through."

"Perhaps the car is stuck in traffic. I'll send him a message myself and wait inside."

"Of course, Ma'am," the pretty girl opened the door with a small bow at the waist.

When she placed the tray down on the desk, she glanced at the top of her datalet to see if it was indicating a new message. A little green light winked at her, and she sank down into the chair opposite the desk as she lifted the screen in her hand. She woke and unlocked it with a touch to find the same message on her screen as that which had been sent to the secretary.

**Good Afternoon, Sir. Are you stuck in traffic?** she replied.

Almost instantaneously she received an answer, **Afternoon. I despise today's route. I have already sent a lecture to the other drivers. I may have to fire someone. - MH**

Sighing, she stood up and walked around the desk to the old fashioned speaker box sitting on the left side. She depressed the button and said, "Maria, please fetch me either a plate of scones or finger sandwiches from the cafeteria?"

"Yes, Ma'am," the speaker crackled back. She could hear the girl's amusement, even through the slight hiss of feedback.

His follow-up message read,** Shall be in shortly – perhaps five minutes. I trust you have everything in order? - MH**

**Of course, Sir. I have paper and electronic files for your perusal, the tea is ready, and Maria is fetching you a plate for lunch as we type.**

After a minute, she received, **You are getting a raise. - MH**

She chuckled to herself, but did not bother replying back. Tea and food were the key to any man's heart, it seemed. Perhaps if she just told the men watching over Sherlock to ply him with tea and cakes, they could tame him into a proper, useful human being instead of a complete prat.

Occupying herself with a crossword, she waited a further three minutes for Maria to arrive with a plate of assorted scones, complete with bowls of clotted cream and jam. Her employer entered the room a scant minute afterwords, shooing the secretary out with a stern warning along the lines of 'we are not to be disturbed unless the world is ending'. If anything he looked even more tired than he had the previous night.

"You visited him, didn't you Sir?"

Sinking into his chair, Mycroft dragged a hand down his face and reached for a scone, "Not my finest decision this month. At least I got to see Sherlock get tackled to the ground." He smiled at her confused look, "He threw a shoe at me and one of the men took him down."

Instead of commenting further, she simply shook her head and tapped a red-nailed finger on the files. "These are the most promising candidates for the Guardian position. I require your approval, of course, before submitting them to the R&amp;D department. Also, I have chosen the name 'Anthea' for the next month."

"Very well, Anthea." He lifted the first file in one hand as she began pouring him a cup. "Do you have any recommendations?"

She nudged a cup of tea towards him. "I reserve the right to make them until after you have read the files yourself."

He looked at her over the top of the file for a moment, then took a deep breath and returned to his reading. Silence took over the room, and she sipped quietly at her tea while focusing back on her crossword. It wasn't long until his face displayed a frown, though she wasn't sure whether it was in concentration or in disgust. When he reached the final file, which she knew to be that of one Doctor John H Watson, she left her stylus in her hand and watched him through her lashes to gauge his expression.

Confusion was the first to cross his face, followed quickly by intrigue, and perhaps even a bit of fear. Soon, he sat forward, holding the file in both hands as he read. He looked up at her as he laid the file down on the desk and laced his fingers together. "Is this what I think it is, Anthea?"

"If you think it is the medical and psychological reports, and CV of an American Navy Doctor by the name of John H Watson, who also happens to be a genetically altered human being, then yes."

Mycroft re-read the file two more times, bringing his hands up to his mouth and leaning against them as he did. Then, he went through the electronic files she had sent him for each of the other files with record speed, and lingered over Watson's files with the same intrigued scrutiny. He then re-read everything again before closing the files, piling them up, lacing his fingers together, and giving her a very direct stare.

It was a short, tense moment before he stated, "These are the best Doctor Stamford could find?"

"Yes Sir."

"You told me you had recommendations."

"Of course, Sir." Anthea picked up her datalet and tapped over to her prepared notes. "These are, of course, my personal opinions."

"Your personal opinions are often better than those of the professionals in our employ."

Anthea accepted the flattery with a wry smirk. "The anger issues and medical issues of the Frenchman and the African concern me. Considering the skill set of Monsieur Monteblanc, those anger issues could easily develop into physical aggression. As for Ms Buhari, I would worry more for her health than anything else. Sherlock's sense of timing and regard for proper nutrition leave something to be desired."

He hummed in agreement, sipping at his tea. "I agree on both points. What is your opinion of the Russian?"

She chewed at her lip, then answered, "I see nothing wrong with his file, but something about him just doesn't feel right to me. I had the same reaction to the Czechoslovakian's file." She shrugged. "I wish I could explain it."

Waving a hand in dismissal, he said, "Don't trouble yourself, my dear. May I assume you agree with me that the Israeli and the Italian are suitably average?"

"Yes, I concur." Lacing her fingers together, she rested her elbows on the edge of the desk. "I must ask you, Sir, what your opinion is of the American."

Mycroft mirrored her stance, frowning. "It is a surprise, to say the least."

"You read my notation about Doctor Stamford's and Provost Marshal Lestrade's comments?"

"I did. I also watched the surveillance footage." Mycroft smirked a bit. "I cannot remember the last time I saw Sherlock shut up that quickly."

Anthea smiled. "Yes, nor have I ever seen him quit a room without having the last word."

"Yes. As the man said, 'It is a puzzlement'." At her lifted eyebrow, he shook his head and grinned smugly. "My mother was always a fan of musicals. Why do you think Sherlock had to learn the violin, and I had to learn piano?"

"I doubt Sherlock would ever quote a movie, no matter how well known, Sir." Her shoulders shook a bit with silent laughter.

Mycroft's frown returned, "Such things have probably long been deleted from Sherlock's conscious mind." He looked thoughtful for a moment, his eyes gazing into the distance. "Though, I believe I heard him play 'Shall We Dance' one Christmas not too long ago."

"Perhaps he's not a total loss after all then?"

"Don't get my hopes up, Anthea."

A chuckle passed her lips and she snagged half a scone. After two bites, she asked, "Shall I take the liberty of bringing the candidates in for a physical?"

"You may alert the medical team right away. I would like Doctor Stamford to oversee it. We shall start the physical exams as soon as possible. Send a message to the psychological team to prepare for their, and then we shall start the face-to-face interviews the weekend after both have finished. I won't have to worry about the agents watching Sherlock being distracted by other people if there is no one in the office." Mycroft poured himself another cup of tea and gulped it down, rubbing his temples in frustration.

Anthea tapped quietly away onto her screen, sending messages out to the evaluation teams, and notifying Sherlock's guards. Mycroft checked his emails, and the news, and accepted a dinner invitation as she worked. They worked smoothly and quietly, the perfect soother for the migraine Mycroft seemed to be nursing.

After half an hour, Anthea looked up from her screen. She waited until her employer did the same before speaking. "Doctor Stamford has confirmed that he will be available to head the physical exam team next week, and Doctor Ella Thompson is free to sit as our psychologist starting right away. The gentlemen at Baker Street have informed Master Holmes of the itinerary."

"Yes, I see that." Mycroft grimaced and leaned his datalet up for her to see a message that had recently arrived.

She raised an eyebrow and commented, "That's certainly a number of expletives I had no idea your brother was even aware of."

Mycroft groaned and rose up out of his chair, stating decisively, "I am going to the Diogenes Club for a bloody drink. I am not to be disturbed for anything less than the second coming. You will, of course, attend me for dinner with the senior under-secretary tonight at five o'clock."

"Of course, Sir. I shall see you then. Gerald is pulling the car around now."

He paused just before opening the door, "My dear, if this new Guardian finally proves to be the one that stays, you are getting two raises."

"I look forward to hiking up your spending budget, Sir."

* * *

In his dark flat in the middle of Marylebone in central London, Sherlock Holmes threw his datalet against the wall of his bedroom in enraged frustration. Where did his bloody brother get off dictating his life, anyway? Overbearing, pompous, cake-consuming bastard!

At the age of thirty, and just two years out of rehabilitation for cocaine and opiate use, Sherlock Holmes was a genius with a mind racing itself to a bullet-quick end. It felt like ever since he'd been forced into a long stint at a spa-like facility, just on the outskirts of Miami in America, for people who wanted to get over their addictions, his brother had been crushing him under the weight of his past indiscretions.

A knock at the door was followed by the sound of the knob turning and a soft exclamation by an elderly woman's voice. His landlady, Mrs Hudson, let herself in and took up a seat on his desk chair as he wrapped his dressing gown closer around him and rolled over on his bed. She crossed her feet at the ankles and tucked them to one side beneath the chair and folded her hands in her lap.

"Good evening, Sherlock dear." She continued speaking when he didn't bother acknowledging her. "Have you eaten at all today? I've got a lovely stew cooking downstairs that I could bring you."

He still did not speak. He didn't even bother sighing. She would give up soon enough.

"You can't keep going on like this, dear. I know how much you hate being bored. If you keep on like this, your going to go mad."

Sherlock fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, still pretending to ignore her. It wasn't like she was saying anything different than what everyone else and their mother enjoyed pointing out to him constantly. Say 'thank you', Sherlock. Don't make the family of the murder victim cry, Sherlock. The oven is not a proper storage area for rat corpses, Sherlock.

"Maybe if you take a more active role this time with hiring your Guardian! You could show up for all the examinations and things, instead of just the personal interviews like you normally do. This time you might actually have the chance to make your opinion heard instead of just considered."

She had a point, and Sherlock hated to admit it.

"If nothing else," her sly tone was enough to finally penetrate his ennui, "you could annoy your brother for three whole days."

He finally rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow, his chin resting in his hand. There was a sly smirk on his landlady's face, and he answered it with an equally sly one of his own. "You are entirely too sly to be wasted as a landlady, Mrs Hudson."

She flattened imaginary wrinkles from her skirt with her hands. "Don't be silly, dear. Perhaps if you actually take an interest in the process, let them get to see you in action, maybe. Your brother still sees you as a little brother, not as a man. If you take the time to show him otherwise, perhaps he'll back off a bit."

Silently he considered her words, then popped up off his bed and made a shooing motion at her with his hands. She took the hint with a roll of her eyes and a fond little smile. As she took her leave, closing the door gently behind her, Sherlock searched out his battered datalet and checked it over for cracks. It was still in fine working condition, and nothing seemed wrong with it as he woke it up. Score one for fine British craftsmanship.

His first message was sent directly to his brother's secretary. She was, in his estimation, about twenty-five percent more likely to comply with his request than Mycroft. **Send me the schedule for the physical, psychological, and personal interviews. Also the candidate files. I will be joining my brother for all of the reviews. - SH**

After three minutes he received the schedule, but not the files, and a short reply. **Forgive me, Mr Holmes. I am unable to comply with your request for the candidate files without direct permission from my employer. Please apply to him.**

"I'm not asking that smug prat for anything," Sherlock grumbled to himself. He sent back, **Very well then. A list of the candidates' names, country or county of origin, and a summary of their skill set will suffice. - SH**

It was a half an hour later, as he was booby-trapping the flat's bathroom with plastic wrap to annoy his captors, that he received the list in short messages.

**1 – Richard Monteblanc – Rouen, France, Afro-Europe Coalition – Mercenary; specializes in knives. Cy-Ocu**

**2 – Chaka Bruhari – Enugu, Nigeria, Afro-Europe Coalition – Professional bodyguard; no specializations; high IQ. Cy-Ocu, -Aud**

**3 – Hugo Burian – Prague, Czechoslovakia, Ru-Asian Alliance – Ex-Military Police; specializes in threat assessment and exit strategy Cy-Aud, -Musc**

**4 – Pietr Volkov – Dedovsk, Russia, Ru-Asian Alliance – Ru-Asian Military defector; highly rated marksman. Cy-Ocu**

**5 – Matan Levy – Tel Aviv, Israel, New Persian Empire – Ex-Mossad, now Mercenary; no specializations. Cy-Ocu, -Aud, -Musc**

**6 – Giulia Laurino – Napoli, Italy, Afro-European Coalition – Ex-Esercito Italiano, rank Sergeant; no specializations. Cy-Ocu, -Aud, -Musc**

He sighed as he read, shaking his head over the unimpressive spread. As he went to put down his screen when a seventh message popped in. He hoped it wasn't from his brother. Lifting the screen back up, his eyes widened in surprise at the message's contents.

**7 – John H Watson, MD – Bohemia, New York, American Legion – Ex-Navy Hospital Corpsman First Class (equivalent of an Army Staff Sergeant); specializations in combat medicine, marksman with rifle and pistol - rated expert. Gen-A**

That name rang a bell, and he traced the memory back to the last arrest before he'd been incarcerated in his own flat. He had a vague impression of an angry, short, military man in a white sweatshirt stained with blood snapping orders at himself and his ex-Guardian. He remembered being surprised at the man's foresight – he had recovered a bullet from the injured Provost Officer that would be very damning evidence once Mr Holten was caught.

It was the last part of the message that really caught his eye. 'Gen-A' was not an abbreviation he was familiar with. It obviously wasn't a mistype; it was placed where the others had cybernetic enhancement indicators. He entered it into several different search engines, but none of them seemed to have viable suggestions. It wasn't until he used his brother's password to search the Department of Defence system that he found an answer in a brief message from a spy in the combat zone outside of Kandahar.

'Informant in the American Legion camp stationed outside of Kandahar reports that first unit of Gen-A soldiers has arrived. Unit is made up of ten SEAL- and Marine-trained soldiers, all with various related genetic anomalies. Unit boasts three stealth experts, two engineering experts, three communications experts, and two hospitalmen. All have expert marksmanship ratings. Each bear badges for completion of Parachutist and Diving training. More as information becomes available.'

"Genetic anomalies," Sherlock murmured to himself. A slow smile spread across his face as he searched for more information. While he searched, a message indication popped up on the corner of his screen. He didn't bother reading it until his wireless access suddenly cut off.

**Did you really think I wouldn't notice? - MH**

"Bastard."

_AN: __Here's a bit of a break down for everyone about the Supernations (in case you were curious):_

_The American Legion (AL) - Canada, the Bahamas, the Keys, the West Indies, the Galapagos, all of South America, Mexico, Central America, Greenland, and the United States. Faction Head - United States_

_The Afro-Europe Coalition (AEC) - all of Europe (including the United Kingdom but excluding Belarus and Latvia) up to and including the Netherlands, Madagascar, and all of Africa and its surrounding islands. Faction Head - England_

_The Ru-Asian Alliance (RA) - Russia Federation, India, China, North and South Korea, Tibet, Mongolia, Belarus, Latvia, Laos, Thailand, Myanmar, Sri Lanka, Vietnam, Cambodia, Nepal, and Bangladesh. Faction Head - China._

_The New Persian Empire (NPE) - Israel, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Oman, U.A.E., Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Georgia, basically all of the Middle East. Faction Head - (tentatively) Iraq._

_The Austro-Pacific Collective (APC) - Indonesia, the Philippines, Taiwan, Japan, Papua New Guinea, East Timor, Malaysia, New Zealand, Tasmania, Australia, Hawaii, and Japan. Faction Head - Japan._

_If you don't see your country listed here, just think about where you're located in the world, and whatever countries are closest to you. That's which Supernation you belong to._


	3. They're Good, He's Great

_AN: Hello faithful readers! Thank you so much for sticking around. I had a bit of trouble with this chapter, but I managed to wrestle it into submission. I know the story seems to be going pretty slow, but I wanted to try my hand and turning this into a real, novel-esque kind of thing. I hope you'll bear with me and continue to encourage me and send me constructive criticism. I love and need it like air. Thank you all so much for reading!_

__Disclaimer- I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of its characters. I bow before the talented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat for the privilege of borrowing their characters for a bit of fun. Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing them with the world.__

**Chapter 3: They're Good, He's Great**

_"__When you're good at something, you'll tell everyone. When you're great at something, they'll tell you." ~ Walter Payton_

Mycroft was surprised, to say the least, when Sherlock arrived in his office bright and early on the day of the psychological interviews. Anthea, it seemed, was not surprised at all – she brought in a tea tray with two cups and a plate of small sandwiches as if it wasn't an irregular occurrence. He gave his secretary a chastising smirk, which she answered with an innocent smile.

Without a word of greeting, Sherlock swept up the files in one hand and arranged them in a pile in alphabetical order. Flipping open the top one, he delved straight into the stream of information. There was a brightness to his pale eyes as they scanned the written words before him with greedy speed, and a very slight flush on his sharp cheeks. Mycroft knew that look as intimately as he knew his own name – Sherlock was interested in the facts before him, as invested in what they would reveal to him about the people they represented as if they were suspects in a murder.

"My goodness, brother," Mycroft said after a sip of tannin-filled, Earl Grey fortification. "Could it be you have finally decided to invest a modicum of concern in your own safety?"

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from taking such a blatant opening, "Could it be you finally developed a minute amount of willpower in regards to your pastry consumption?"

Well, so much for Sherlock having matured overnight. Mycroft pursed his lips but refused to respond to his brother's childish insult. Sighing to keep his temper in check, Mycroft poured his brother a cup of tea and placed it at the younger man's elbow. "Dr Thompson has just finished sending me the last of the psychological profiles. Shall I wait until you've finished devouring the personnel files before I begin reviewing them?"

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to swim out of the stream of data and look at his brother. Trying to play nice, after so many years of fraternal feuding, it was hard to break himself of the old, knee-jerk habits. What Mycroft had just gifted him with was an olive branch of sorts. He gritted his teeth and offered, "Perhaps you could give me your original opinions before we tackle the inner workings of the candidates' minds?"

One of Mycroft's eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead at such a concession. It seemed that his brother _was_ taking things seriously. "I've looked through all of their individual CVs, and they all seem to have very good backgrounds. Except for the gentlemen from Russia and Czechoslovakia, those with military backgrounds show no signs of disloyalty or insubordination. They all show ambition, integrity, and all seem of fairly average intellect."

Nodding, Sherlock turned back to the files. It was much easier to talk to his brother if he wasn't looking at him. "No causes for concern?"

Pursing his lips, Mycroft fiddled with his teacup and turned it around and around on its saucer. He didn't answer for a long enough time that Sherlock looked up again, brow furrowed in askance. Leaning back in his seat, Mycroft countered, "Are you looking for my personal judgements, or a general consensus?"

Sherlock peered down at the files before him, not really looking at the words. This could be either a turning, or a sticking point. If he asked for Mycroft's personal opinions, it could go one of two ways – his brother could continue to be a pompous, smug, know-it-all or they might finally reach some form of plateau. However, if he took the general consensus, he would lose the valuable data Mycroft had already personally garnered from each of the lives in written form he held in his hands.

He decided to take the former, in order not to lose the data, even if it might chip a bit off of his pride. He took a deep breath and looked his elder brother in the eye, stating, "Your personal opinions have more of a chance of being correct than than the conjecture of your countless minions."

Surprise was something Mycroft had been taught not to manifest. That did not stop his cup from rattling in its saucer as he placed it back on the table. His brother had just complimented him, in a way. He refused to smile as he gave a cordial nod of his head. "In that case," he leaned over and tapped out a command into his datalet screen. "I have just emailed you a copy of the psychological exams. I propose we go through each file, both the mental and written data, and work our way through them all at once."

"I find that proposal acceptable," Sherlock conceded. He moved back to the file of the African woman. "Ms Bruhari."

"Her intellect is above average, so she might be able to keep up with you mentally. She has a very well-rounded education, and skill set, but no specializations. My only concern is her diabetes. You can have quite an irregular schedule. I'm not sure that her health would not suffer."

Humming in agreement, Sherlock scanned the data from Dr Thompson. "According to Doctor Thompson, and I use that title loosely, Ms Bruhari has an almost desperate need to prove herself just as capable as anyone without diabetes."

"She also apparently didn't receive enough affection as a child." Mycroft sighed through his nose.

"I'm pretty sure all of these reports say that." Sherlock smirked. "Mr Burian?"

"He has a short history of non-compliance with certain weapon safety rules at his last command post." Mycroft pulled up his copies of the psychological profiles. "Dr Thompson seems to find him agreeable."

Sherlock propped his datalet up on its built-in stand, then leaned back in his seat and crossed his long legs. Balancing the next open file in his lap, he scoffed, "I wonder if Thompson bothered reading exactly which safety rules Mr Burian disregarded. Ms Laurino seems promising."

"Yes, very well-rounded skill set. She is of average intelligence, and I have it on good authority that she adapts quickly in unfamiliar situations." It took Mycroft a moment to scan the mental data. "Dr Thompson believes she exhibits sociopathic tendencies."

"So do I." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Mycroft take in a deep breath while closing his eyes – his brother's high-class version of an eye-roll. "Don't bother denying it. If you like, I could list all the symptoms I exhibit."

"I could also list the symptoms of Asperger's syndrome that you exhibit, but it does not follow that you truly have it." Mycroft poured himself a second cup of tea. "That being said, Ms Laurino's previous employers have also mentioned that she fails to realize when something is not considered socially acceptable. Considering your own history, I'm not sure she would be the best person for you to work with."

With a full, enthusiastic eye-roll, Sherlock grumbled, "Let me guess, you're afraid I shall pick up bad habits? Who are you? Mummy?"

Pursing his lips, Mycroft held back a scathing retort comparing Sherlock to their father. It would do nothing but set Sherlock off into an equally scathing tirade, and the momentary truce they found themselves in would vanish. Instead, he offered, "If you must have someone with high marks in all skills, then I suggest you choose Mr Levy. Unlike Ms Laurino, he seems quite socially respectable."

"He is also nearly fifty, has no specializations, and had declared himself retired about four years ago. He's an old gambler hurting for funds." Sherlock shook his head decidedly, "He is a 'no'."

Mycroft hummed softly, "He may be as you say. We shall see how he fares in the physical examinations before eliminating him out of hand. He may surprise you."

"I'm not eliminating him out of hand, I'm eliminating him because of exactly the reasons I just stated. The Frenchman I'm eliminating out of hand." With a scoff, Sherlock tossed the third-to-last file onto the floor.

"Mr Monteblanc is a perfectly acceptable choice," His elder brother lifted it back up with a sigh, but Sherlock cut off any further speech.

"He's a narcissistic psychopath with an obsession with blades that even I find unhealthy. Plus, he's French. I don't really think another reason is necessary."

"Sherlock," Mycroft leaned his head into his hand and massaged his forehead and temples, "nationality is never a valid reason to discount someone. Neither is race, gender, orientation, disability, or religious creed. I'm fairly sure we covered that in primary school."

Completely ignoring his brother, Sherlock stated, "Mr Volkov looks promising, or at least he would if he wasn't already a defector from his home country."

"Yes. I dislike defectors as much as I dislike spies, even though I may see the benefit of employing them." Finishing his cup of tea, Mycroft leaned back in his chair and poked ruefully at his datalet. "He does, however, possess a good-humoured and gregarious personality which might be to your benefit when dealing with the more unsavoury of London's underground."

"Doubtful. He's facetious, not gregarious, and will be about as mentally useful as I would be if you were to replace my mind with that of Lestrade's pet forensic, Anderson."

"He is charismatic," Mycroft sniffed, sounding offended. "Besides, considering how you seem to alienate every person you meet, such a personality might be helpful."

"I'm charismatic."

"Stop right there, Sherlock. We are doing very well; don't spoil it."

Grumbling, the younger Holmes dropped the file of Mr Volkov onto the table with a loud slap. He couldn't stop the slow spread of a smile as he lifted the seventh file into his hands. Sandwiched inside two halves of manilla material were the ink-and-paper answers he had been anticipating since he'd arrived.

Beside him, Mycroft let out a loud groan. "Please tell me that the American's file is not the only reason you are here at this moment?"

"Of course it isn't," Sherlock flapped a hand dismissively in his brother's direction. "But it is a welcome bonus."

Leaning back in his seat, Mycroft widened his eyes in mock disbelief. He was sure Sherlock noticed when his younger brother let out a loud huff of exasperation. Bringing up Dr Thompson's notes, Mycroft frowned as he read. "Trust issues, it says here. He suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder which manifests itself in the form of nightmares, a heightened sense of awareness of his surroundings that borders on paranoia, and psychosomatic pain in the leg and arm."

"Considering his medical history shows he was injured in the arm by a bullet, I highly doubt that pain is psychosomatic." A quiet silence fell between them for a moment, broken only by the susurrus of papers moving against each other. Suddenly, Sherlock looked over at his brother and asked, "Where are the scientific files? The ones that would detail the manipulations to which the American government subjected his DNA?"

Mycroft's upper lip curled slightly at the corner as his face contorted in an ugly, petulant frown. "The American Legion has been extremely uncooperative with our scientists at Baskerville. They have stone-walled our efforts to procure even a list of the supposed outcomes of their genetic research."

Whinging, Sherlock childishly impersonated a dead octopus; he flopped his arms and legs open in his seat and drooped. "Why are normal people so obstinate? You'd think that at some point they would understand such information is better off in the hands of someone more intelligent?"

"I've already pressed Dr Stamford into trying himself. I told him to stress the fact that he is Dr Watson's physician." There was a forlorn buzz as an incoming message filled Mycroft's screen. He pursed his lips unhappily as he read. "It seems the good doctor has more integrity than I expected."

A snort from the seat beside him called Mycroft's attention. Sherlock rolled his head against the back of the plush chair to look his brother in the eye. "Yes, Dr Stamford can have quite a backbone when it comes to some things."

"So it would seem." Flicking his stylus over his screen, Mycroft pulled up a spreadsheet and copy-pasted the names of each candidate into it, then added columns for personal observations, psychological pros and cons, physical deficiencies/disabilities, marksmanship ratings, and miscellaneous notations. "My assistant did notify you that tomorrow would be the physical examinations?"

"Yes, and the marksmanship test, and the ingenuity test. I don't know why you bothered to make them all on the same day. We probably won't even get through them all."

"That's why I have them arriving at eight o'clock and not ten," Mycroft stated as he filled in his chart. "It is my hope that some of them will eliminate themselves before the physical, and perhaps even during it."

Sherlock knew by Mycroft's smug expression that his elder brother had taken note of the sly grin that had overtaken his face. "Who knew you could be so devious, brother dear. All these years of Mummy telling everyone that I was the one to keep an eye on and here you are."

"I am calculating, thank you, not devious. You, however, definitely need looking after. Shall I remind you of the Blackberry Incident?"

The younger Holmes sat up ramrod straight in his chair, the nostrils of his aquiline nose flaring as his cheeks blotched red in rage. "That was ten years ago, you fat partridge, and we agreed never to mention it again!"

Outside the room, Anthea looked up at the door as two baritone voices rose in a shouting match. Sighing deeply, she glanced at the time displayed on her screen and then returned to her current crossword puzzle. Beside her, one of Sherlock's four government-issue nannies looked up over her head at the door.

After several long moments, he asked, "Suppose we should break them up?"

"Don't even think about it," she placed a hand on his knee as he shifted to get up. "This is the most exercise the two of them have had in about a month. They'll wear themselves out eventually."

The guard seemed to think about that, and then relaxed back into his seat with a conspiratorial smile. The secretary brought them both a cup of tea and a tray of biscuits, and handed off the morning paper to the guard. They sat that way in silence for another hour before the door flew open and Sherlock stormed out in a whirl of high-quality wool.

* * *

Doctor John H Watson, MD, was no stranger to physical examinations, medical or otherwise, but that didn't mean he enjoyed them. After living most of his life almost literally under a microscope, followed by years of rigorous physical tests of his endurance, stamina, and limitations, he was sick to death of doctors and machines and his own damn file. At least this time, in this nondescript government building in the middle of London, there was a friendly face among the medical personnel.

Mike Stamford beamed brightly as John entered the waiting room. As far as John could see, his was the only friendly face in the room. The other technicians and assistants looked too young or too jaded to even be wearing a lab coat. Even the other candidates looked unhappy to be awake at that hour of the morning.

He had thought that he was one of seven possibilities, but there were only three other non-personnel bodies in the room besides himself. One was a stockily built black woman, and the other two were large white men with the broad shouldered, slim-hipped physiques of soldiers. At least he and the woman were of a height – the other two men had to top six feet – so he didn't feel as ridiculous as he usually would when he was one of the shortest people in a room. It seemed he was the last person to have arrived, and the clock showed it was already a quarter to eight.

"Good morning, everyone," Mike stepped forward and rubbed his hands together before clasping them in front of his rotund stomach. "Just so we're all on the same page, I would like to inform you that we'll be starting the first round of tests in about fifteen minutes."

"How long is this going to take us in total?" The black woman asked. John could hear the cadence of a non-English language in her speech. She planted her hands on her wide hips, frowning. "Some of us have other things to do."

"That is true," said the dark-haired man. The glottal roll of his 'r' pronounced him a Frenchman. "I have a lunch engagement." He smirked. "And a dinner engagement."

"You can only jerk off so many times," the huge blond retorted. His smile was wide, even as his Russian mouth forced out the consonants of the English tongue. "You'll chafe yourself."

"Or I'll chafe your mother's throat," the Frenchman growled out.

The African woman let out an unladylike snort and rolled her chocolate eyes until they connected with John's snow-leopard-grey ones. While the Russian snapped a comment back at the Frenchman, John let his sandy brows rise halfway up his forehead as a smirk tugged the left corner of his mouth up. She answered his look with a silent chuckle, turning her face away to hide the her smile as her broad shoulders and ample chest shook with mirth.

Clapping loudly, Stamford called the attention in the room back to him. "How about instead of arguing, I tell you what you can look forward to in the next few hours?"

The Russian and the Frenchman grumbled and shot morose looks at one another, but they sat down again without a fuss. John leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees while lacing his fingers together before him. The African woman sat up straight, her posture perfect, with her hands folded in her lap.

"Right," Mike smiled at them all. "First we'll be taking biological fluid samples from each of you. After that, we will be taking you down to the shooting range in the basement for a marksmanship test. Following that, you will be lead back upstairs and there will then be an hour break for lunch. After that, you will be directed to the gymnasium for a fitness test and an obstacle course. Once finished, you have the option to shower and change here if you wish. On your way out, you'll be given a slip of paper with the date and time for your personal interview, and off you go." The doctor beamed again. "Are there any questions?"

A raised hand from the Frenchman was followed by the words, "Will you be taking a sample of _all_ our biological fluids?"

Mike rolled his eyes in irritation while the Russian snickered and John hung his head between his shoulders and shook it. Stamford didn't even bother answering the question. John made the mistake of looking up again, right into Mike's face. There was an odd look on the doctor's features, and John realised that Stamford's frowning gaze was focused on his mouth. Self-conscious, John ran the tip of his tongue over his front teeth from canine to canine.

"If you'll all follow me, we can get started."

With Stamford leading the pack, they entered a long exam room with ten chairs built specifically for the purpose of drawing blood were lined up against one wall. Opposite them was a long table, with four neat piles of sample jars and vials in various sizes every three feet. John headed straight for a chair and dropped into the seat.

The laboratory technicians were a diverse lot. One woman, an Asian with chin-length hair and a small diamond piercing winking in her nose, pushed a urine sample jar into the hands of the Frenchman and pointed him to a bathroom door. She completely ignored his flirtatious request that she help him collect the sample. Beside her, the young man with flaming red hair and a spatter of freckles over his thin nose gathered up a wrapped q-tip and moved towards the Russian. He gave his colleague a sympathetic look as he moved past her.

John's tech was a very masculine looking Indian woman, whose deft hands were covered in dark lines of henna. She gave him a perfunctory smile as she strapped a tourniquet around his upper arm and swabbed his inner elbow with a piece of cotton. One seat over, the African was being ordered to open her mouth by a dark-haired man with skin the colour of a freshly baked pretzel.

It was very much like a dance, the way the technicians moved around each other, going from chair to table and back again. No one stumbled or slipped or bumped into each other. John wondered if they had been working together long, or if perhaps they were just used to working in a similar environment.

When the sample jars were all filled and the candidates were standing up to move along to the elevator that would take them down to the range, Mike Stamford reappeared looking a little out of breath. In his hand he held another sample jar with a thin, strong piece of rubber stretched over the mouth and secured with a rubber band. He walked straight up to John with an apologetic smile.

"Boss's orders," Mike shrugged. "I need you to bite this."

Pursing his lips, John took the jar in hand and glared at it. Somewhere nearby, the Frenchman chuckled and said, "Poor little man, mouth too dry to provide a proper sample?"

Irked by the other man's attitude, John glanced over at him and snarked, "I've got more than enough saliva to spit in your face, Pierre."

"Small men are like small dogs," the Frenchman shot back. "Their bark is always worse than their bite."

John locked a predatory stare into the other man's eyes, and he let a thin smile spread over his mobile features. His voice was cold and matter-of-fact, "My bite is venomous."

A short growl rose out of John's throat as he bit forcefully through the material. The silence afterword stretched out uncomfortably long as an amber liquid slowly dripped from his canine teeth into the jar. When it was one quarter full, John unlocked his jaw from the bite and handed the bottle over to Dr Stamford.

Even the technicians looked unnerved as John traced the edges of his straight, white teeth with his tongue before covering them with his lips and smiling amicably. Mike skirted around him with a furtive side-long glance, keeping a good half a metre of distance from him as he added the jar to John's samples. Only the African woman seemed to recover, giving him a smirk and a nod; one predator appreciating the skill of another.

Smirking to himself as Mike took the lead again, John followed the technicians and his fellow candidates to a wide, freight elevator. With the exception of the African woman and Stamford, they all kept as far away from him as the physical confines of the lift would allow. That was fine with John; technically he wasn't there to be liked.

"I'm Chaka, by the way," the African woman said. She held out a hand for him to shake.

John shook it firmly, "John."

"You should be careful," the Russian turned to them both. "Today's comrades could be tomorrow's enemy."

Before he even realized that he'd opened his mouth, John retorted, "Said the Ruski."

The much larger blond man looked surprised before letting out a booming laugh. "Political humour? High-brow, coming from an American pig."

"Fart and dick jokes can only get you so far," John answered back with a shrug. "Besides, I'd rather smell like honest bacon than like red herring."

A loud burst of laughter followed, from both the Frenchman and the Russian, which seemed to dissolve all the tension in the lift. The Russian held out a slab of a hand and thrust it at John. "I am Pietr."

"Pleasure to meet you," John gave the other man a hearty shake and a grin.

Chaka also took her turn to shake hands with the jovial giant, "I'd rather have to face an enemy with a friendly disposition than a friend with a grudge. We might as well treat each other as friends until we are forced to do otherwise."

"Unlike you," the Frenchman scoffed, "I am here to show that I am the best man for the job. I feel no need to make friends with any of you."

"In that case, Pierre, we will continue to think you are a waste of our time," Pietr winked at John, who answered the allusion to the earlier insult with a quiet chuckle.

When the door opened, Mike moved out into the dark hall and motioned for them to follow. The technicians stayed behind, probably heading back up to set up the floor where the fitness test would take place. About ten feet down the hall was a grey door, in front of which stood a barrel-chested man in urban camouflage. Mike stopped a few feet short of the man and waited until the candidates had all lined up behind him.

"Range Conducting Officer Bryson, these are the candidates for the Guardian position. I leave them in your care."

Bryson crossed his arms over his broad chest as Dr Stamford turned around and returned to the lift. He gave each of the people before him a piercing, measuring look before speaking. "Good morning. Welcome to the Homefront Indoor Range. This is an Airsoft-handgun-only range, and as such you will be supplied with a gas powered RedWolf Custom G17 3rd Gen CNC metal replica of a Glock 17. You will also be supplied with safety goggles and ear muffs, both of which will be worn at all times inside the range." He turned sideways and gestured for them all to follow.

Inside the first room, where normally there would be someone standing by to issue or sell equipment, there was just a long table with the equipment already set out. While they all tested the weapons, Bryson continued to speak. "You will be given four real-capacity magazines with seventeen shots each. The first three magazines will be fired at the distances of twenty-three metres, six and a half metres, and fourteen metres, in that order and without the activation of any additional sight-enhancing techniques. The last magazine will be used to test your accuracy with sight enhancement, and how many rounds you use compared to how many accurate kill shots you make at a range of forty-seven metres."

They lined up before the air lock door, and put on their safety goggles. Before they donned their ear muffs, Bryson held up a hand. "There will be no cowboy-style or combat shooting in this exercise. This is an accuracy test only. Any trick shooting or childish actions will be considered an immediate disqualification."

Duly warned, they pulled on their ear muffs. John sneered a bit, uncomfortable with the dulling of his sense of hearing. If it went on for too long, it would make him even more uncomfortable, as his other senses tended to compensate very quickly. It was a wonderful skill in a combat situation, but it could quickly become inconvenient in a normal place like a shooting range. Setting his irritation aside, he followed Pietr into the range.

It was a very large anechoic chamber, brightly lit, with about a hundred or so lanes separated by thick foam barriers. Each candidate was positioned an empty lane away from the others. A stack of paper targets were hung on the side of the shooting booth beneath a red light bulb, and one was already hanging at the prepared twenty-three metre distance. John chewed on his lower lip as he raised his weapon in the ready position.

When the red light turned on, John focused on his target and fired three shots at the torso of the silhouette. They pierced just left of the centre of the target's chest, which informed John the non-lethal weapon had the same pull to the left that a real Glock 17 always seemed to have. Rocking his head until he felt his spine crack, John adjusted his aim and stance, then emptied the magazine.

When he'd finished, he pressed the button on the wall opposite the stack of targets and brought the hole-riddled silhouette back to him. He was rather proud that each bullet had successfully pierced through both of the 'X' marks of the target. Not one bullet out of place.

He handed off the finished target to Bryson, who handed him another clip, but signalled for him to wait. Chaka was the next person to finish, followed by Pietr and the Frenchman at the same time. Bryson gave them each their clips, and then indicated they could all return for the next target distance.

The six and a half metre and the fourteen metre distance followed the same protocol, and John was glad and proud that he was still living up to his expert marksmanship rating. Shooting at a paper target in a controlled environment wasn't exactly hard; John was just glad not to feel his healed shoulder complain. He was more worried about how it would hold up during the fitness round of testing.

Before giving them their fourth magazine, Bryson waited until they were all gathered before him and then indicated with a finger for them to remove their hearing protection. They all removed them gingerly. John cringed at the return of his hearing, but gave the Range Officer his full attention.

"We will be using a rapid-fire testing set up for the next test. The silhouettes are made of metal with cut-outs at the usual scoring denominations. Micro-sensors will detect the passage of each round. Your score will be recorded and uploaded to my datalet, where I will add it to your other scores and send it directly to my employer."

They all nodded and replaced their earmuffs. Chaka gave John and Pietr a thumbs-up, which they both returned, and tapped her temples before they disappeared into their booths. John knew she, Pietr, and the Frenchman had to have the cybernetic implants most people with militaristic backgrounds were given. He almost pitied them – they might be able to magnify their vision by four or five times, but they would never see as well as John could. With the DNA coding for his vision copied from that of eagles, John could see a whopping eight times the normal magnification of a human; even in a helicopter hovering fifteen thousand feet in the air, John could spot a rabbit in a field.

Shooting at a target forty-seven metres away still presented a small problem. The guns they were using were only considered 'accurate' at about forty-five metres. It seemed to be more of a test of their ability to cope with the limitations of their equipment, rather than their marksmanship.

When the red light came on, John started firing. He focused on the head of the silhouette, figuring it was the quickest way to kill a person. It was a smaller target, but it was also very effective; a head-shot was ninety-nine point nine percent guaranteed to kill. He didn't waste any time emptying the magazine.

The Frenchman was the first one to finish, but John was not far behind him. Chaka and Pietr followed closely after, finishing at nearly the same moment. Officer Bryson nodded at them all in turn and indicated for them to exit the range.

Once outside the room, Officer Bryson gestured for them to remove their headgear, which they all returned to the table. As they disassembled their weapons, Bryson stated, "Thank you all for your time. You now have an hour for lunch and then you will meet Dr Stamford in the lab waiting room. He'll be taking you up to the gymnasium for the fitness testing."

They made their way back to the lift, and Pietr slung an arm around John's and Chaka's shoulders. "I know of a wonderful Indian restaurant about a ten minute walk from here."

"I was thinking Italian, but Indian will do," Chaka smirked at them both. "Provided of course it does not prove too spicy for you pale faces."

John snorted, "I spent the latter half of my life in the Afghan desert surrounded by soldiers who thought secretly putting ghost peppers in each other's food was a fun time. I'm surprised I even have taste buds left."

Pietr laughed jovially, "Then мы идем! We go, yes?"

John and Chaka nodded, both smiling amicably up at the large Russian. They all ignored the pointedly loud way the Frenchman began speaking rapidly in his native tongue into his Bluetooth headset, obviously chatting up his lunch date. Chaka turned to John, one brow raised and asked, "So, Afghanistan?"

* * *

The Department of Defence Fitness Centre was a huge marvel of engineering. There was the usual gymnasium equipment, like free weights and various muscle building machines and treadmills, but there was also a series of military-grade obstacle courses and a testing laboratory. It was kept borderline immaculate by a small army of custodians and robots, and a series of anti-bacterial and anti-viral 'baths' hooked into the overhead sprinkler systems.

Sherlock hated it. It was all fine and dandy for the purpose of measuring some of a person's limits, but it didn't have the real-world variables necessary to test other factors that could make or break a case or a person. There was no change in temperature, no weather patterns, there wasn't even dirt! Racing against a clock might increase a heart rate, but it didn't have the same rush from an adrenaline-fuelled chase over rooftops after an armed murderer. Without adding those variables, the brain chemicals or the terrain changes or the danger, to the measurement there was just no value to the tests.

"Stop sighing, Sherlock." Mycroft leaned a little closer into his brother's personal space. "You sound constipated, and you're making the scientists edgy."

"They should be edgy. This should really be only the first of many fitness examinations, and not _the_ fitness exam. They know that and it should chafe at their metaphorical souls."

The smirk that appeared on Mycroft's face made Sherlock want to commit fratricide in a violent and inelegant fashion. His elder brother dryly quipped, "How very poetically put, brother dear. Perhaps you've missed your true calling."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

Through a series of monitors, they watched Dr Stamford, his small team of lab assistants, and two very burly looking Army Lieutenants put the four candidates through their paces. Mr Monteblanc was as lithe as he looked, but his balance wasn't as good as Ms Bruhari's. Mr Volkov was a mountain of muscle, and though he was at least two stone heavier than any of the others, he still kept up in speed. Dr Watson was a surprise – his sturdy, stocky frame kept up well with his longer-legged counterparts, and he didn't seem nearly as winded as they were at the end of the second run through.

Sherlock frowned as the four candidates caught their breath. The Frenchman stood aloof, but the other three seemed to have formed a tenuous sort of friendship. It appeared that they were taking the short break to chat as well as cool down. He watched as a wide grin spread over Watson's face at something the Russian had stated while gesturing wildly, and the African threw her head back in laughter.

"We're moving on to the endurance and stamina testing, Sherlock. Come along." Mycroft lead him down a few narrow hallways to the equipment room.

Four treadmills had been set up, the spaces between them filled with medical equipment for monitoring cardiopulmonary functions. They were all connected to single monitor and tower, which had been discretely set up in a corner of the room. It was already powered up and humming gently, the medical data programs all showing steady, flat lines to any observers. Sherlock ignored the room as a whole, focusing instead on the doorway through which the candidates were finally entering.

Monteblanc strutted in first, a careless smirk pasted across his face. His eyes were more shrewd than curious, and he took note of all the doors in the room warily. His mouth drooped into a rather impressive frown as one of the technicians ushered him onto a treadmill and otherwise completely ignored him. He removed his shirt and stated a lewd comment, which was also ignored, as the lab assistant connected the sensors to his lithe chest.

_[Frenchman, obviously. Walks with a slight hitch in his gait – spinal curve is slightly misshapen – possibly due to injury in childhood, or perhaps a mild form of scoliosis that was never fully corrected. Nails manicured, uses expensive hair product that smells like sandalwood, patchouli, and myrrh, fake tan – cares about his appearance. Puffs his chest out to display the bullet and knife wounds on his torso and stomach – show-off, proud of his close calls with death. Exaggerated gesturing when speaking innuendo to women, aggressive gestures towards other men – Heterosexual, and unattached (not at all surprising – his language is chauvinistic and his tone is patronizing). Conclusion: __**NO**__.]_

Volkov was placed to the Frenchman's right, and shrugged before asking if he should also remove his shirt. The assistant shrugged and gestured that it was his decision, and the Russian shrugged again before pulling off his shirt. His wide, friendly smile never wavered as he stepped up onto the machine. He leaned carelessly against the instrument panel at the front of the treadmill, causing it to creak alarmingly. He took note of all the entrances and exits with a glance, then took up a pose that looked more relaxed than it was.

_[Russian, but his accent indicates Crimean upbringing. Heavy musculature, weighs probably half a stone more than he appears – trained to be an Olympic Weightlifter before being drafted into the military. Hated the workouts, but is proud of the results. Dyes his hair dark brown; slight orange tint at the hairline and around the eyebrows – he's turning grey but isn't ready to give up the appearance of youth. No hair product, subtle but strong cologne is noticeable but not overpowering, shirts are half a size too small to show off his physique, no manicure, tan is natural but kept up with the help of machines instead of natural sunlight – cares about how others see him enough to put effort into appearance but there is no personal vanity behind it. Not showing off old wounds, but posture suggests he is trying to actively deter anyone admiring or inquiring about them. Engaging and friendly gestures and expressions – the 'jolly giant' approach – more likely to try and diffuse tense situations with humour or gregariousness. Openly admiring of women, pays no attention to men except to note their placement in the room – heterosexual but not overbearing, unattached. Conclusion: No – too chatty, too friendly. Annoying. No.]_

Watson was placed to the Volkov's right, and he didn't remove his shirt. He rocked his head from side to side a bit on his neck, then placed his right hand on his left shoulder and pushed as he stretched his neck again in the opposite direction. There was a quiet 'pop' from the joint and he rotated his shoulder once as if to check it was still working. Unlike the others, who were having sensors placed on them by the lab assistants, Watson placed his own sensors expertly on himself beneath his clothes, getting a big smile and a thumbs up from Stamford, who stood behind the desk in the corner of the room.

_[American, accent is soft and carefully hidden by precise enunciations and possibly word choice; he speaks deliberately slower than his speech pattern indicates is his normal rate– has been on the wrong side of negative reactions to either his pronunciation or his speed. Good posture, probably from military training. Hair is blond and going prematurely grey (perhaps white, hard to tell from this distance) and styled with just enough product to hold it in place; no cologne, no manicure, tan is natural (previously noted) – minimalist, possibly does not favour products with scents due to his own heightened sense of smell. Bullet wound in the left shoulder mentioned in medical report. Without seeing it, cannot ascertain extent of damage. Scar tissue probably gets a troublesome ache in colder or damper weather. Calm demeanour leans towards friendliness; previous exposure shows he is fully capable of diffusing tense situations verbally – physical tests so far show he is fit enough to be useful in a fight. Keeps watchful eye on all entrances, exits, and people within the room. Keeps staring at Ms Bruhari – heterosexual and interested, unattached. Conclusion: Maybe – think of the possibilities for experimentation.]_

Bruhari was lead to the final set up, and stripped her shirt off to reveal a sports bra with an exaggerated bounce of her eyebrows aimed at one of the female assistants. She rolled her eyes at the catcalls from Volkov and Monteblanc, gracing them with a swift two-finger salute. Watson grinned at her and let out a bark of laughter when she winked saucily at him. She stood patiently as a technician attached her set of sensors, rocking slightly on her heels. Watson cocked his head at her a bit, frowning slightly, but her wide smile seemed to allay whatever worry was troubling him. She placed her hands on either side of the instrument panel of the treadmill and put her weight against it, then rocked her hips side to side until her spine popped quietly.

_[African – Accent is from Nigeria, but the cadence suggests she speaks Zulu with some degree of familiarity. Good posture – probably helps with any back problems that might be attributed to the weight of her breast tissue, and also helps her appear taller than she is. Hair is natural, braided into corn rows – probably the lowest maintenance style she can keep up with. No make-up, minimal perfume scented like orchids, clear nail polish on manicured nails – takes just enough pride in her appearance to appear professional but not vain. Keeps an eye on the entrances, exits, and people in the room but pays nothing any specific attention. Exchanges flirtatious glances and actions with men but reserves displays of actual interest for females – Lesbian, unattached. Conclusion: Maybe – intelligence is a plus but Diabetes may cause complications.]_

Mycroft and Sherlock stalked their way around to where Mike Stamford stood sentry over the main computer. As they loomed behind him, Dr Stamford gave the signal to begin the testing, and a loud whirr rose up from the machines as they switched on at a steady walking pace. Sherlock turned his face in the direction of the monitor, but really his eyes were focused on the candidates.

Volkov, Watson, and Bruhari continued to banter back and forth, chatting about something to do with whether it was heat or flavour that actually made food spicy, probably a conversation they were continuing from lunch. Sherlock remembered that they had all arrived for the fitness tests at the same time, smelling faintly of curry and prattling together as if they were old friends. It gave him a bit of satisfaction, seeing that the Frenchman had ostracised himself from the others – he had known the man would not be a team player. He cast a smug grin over to his brother, and Mycroft's upper lip curled into a sneer.

"Try to keep your opinions to yourself at least until the interviews," Mycroft murmured, leaning closer to his brother in order not to be overheard.

Schooling his features back into its customary mask of aloof indifference, Sherlock let a glimmer of mischief fill his eyes as he turned his gaze back to the monitor. He heard Mycroft take a deep breath into, and let it out of, his nose, which was the closest his brother ever got to a sigh of exasperation while in public. It was a small victory.

One of the machines beeped loudly, and Watson's head turned quickly towards Bruhari, whose pace was slowing down significantly as her skin gained an ashen tint. Two of the lab technicians converged on her, and Watson barked out to Dr Stamford, "Get some Glucagon now, she's hypoglycaemic."

Mike flipped the switch to turn off the machines, and rushed to the well-stocked first aid kit set up over in the corner. It had everything in it from antihistamines to Naloxone, and he yanked out the orange coloured kit that Watson had demanded with impressive speed. Watson, who was already off his machine and helping the technicians lower Ms Bruhari to the floor, looked up just as Stamford whistled sharply. He caught the package tossed at him and had it open nearly as soon as it was in his hand.

Sherlock watched as Watson and the lab assistants worked in tandem. The assistants double checked Bruhari's pulse rate and blood sugar level, while Watson put together the medicine and injected it directly into her thigh. Stamford swept away the packaging and snatched the empty injector as soon as Watson held it up. On the monitor, Watson's read-outs showed barely a blip of change, as if he had known something was going to happen.

As an emergency crew arrived and started hooking Ms Bruhari up to more equipment, Watson moved out of the way and leaned back against a wall. He watched the crew with a critical eye, but said nothing except an affirmation that he was the one who had injected the drug. Sherlock took the opportunity to sidle up next to him.

"You knew this was going to happen," Holmes stated matter-of-factly. He followed it up with a hard stare and a deeply intoned, "How?"

Watson glanced over and up at him, pale brows contracting in puzzlement. "I don't know what you mean?"

"You've been watching her surreptitiously, with the exception of the moment she acknowledged your worried glance, since you entered the room. Your vitals showed no spikes in heart rate or lung function that would hint at an additional jump in your adrenaline levels that would have occurred if the incident had been unexpected. You knew that something was wrong with her, and you knew exactly which method was needed to alleviate her condition. Now I will ask you again, how?"

The stare-down that followed made Sherlock a bit nervous, if he was being honest with himself. He had faced down psychopaths that hunted other people for the sheer sport of it, but they had never given him a pause like staring into the multi-faceted blue-grey eyes of Doctor John Watson. People often allude to feeling like a mouse caught before the jaws of a lion, but Sherlock had never believed he would literally feel like the prey to a predator. He might have felt less as if he might potentially become a dinner course than if he'd been dumped weaponless into the crocodile exhibit at the zoo after no one had bothered to feed the reptiles for a week.

In his adult life Sherlock Holmes, up until then, had never been the first person to look away from a stare. Not that he would admit it; if asked he would just say he was making sure he was out of the way of the ambulance crew carrying Ms Bruhari out of the room. In fact, he made sure to deliberately follow the path of the ambulance crew with his eyes to put the truth behind that. He was so focused on making the action look as natural as possible that he almost didn't hear Watson speak.

"Ketones."

Sherlock immediately turned back to look at Watson's face, "What?"

Sighing loudly, Watson rubbed the side of his nose with a finger as he turned to watch the door shut behind the emergency crew and their patient. "Ketones, are a chemical compound that appears in blood chemistry when glucose levels are low enough that the body starts to break down fats instead of sugar to make energy."

"I know what they are, what do they have to do with how you knew Ms Bruhari was suffering from hypoglycaemia?" Sherlock snapped.

Watson's reply was calm, "Ketones give off a fruity scent."

A realization dawned on Sherlock and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, "Which you could smell."

A nod was Watson's only reply. Sherlock turned away and sidled back up to his brother. Mycroft was just putting the finishing touches on an incident report, which he would eventually add into both Watson's and Bruhari's files. His elder brother didn't even bother to look away from the screen while blandly stating, "No."

"We're doing his individual interview now."

"Sherlock, I said no."

"Fine, tomorrow then. Afternoon tea time. We'll even have scones." Sherlock gave his brother what might have been a winning smile if they weren't brothers.

Mycroft dragged a deep breath into his nose, his eyes closing as he let it out slowly. When he opened them again, Sherlock still had that ridiculous sham of a smile on his face. The elder Holmes narrowed his eyes briefly, then relented, "If he shows even a hint of reluctance, or I find anything in his answers objectionable, I will disqualify him on the spot."

"Stamford!" Sherlock shouted across the room. The doctor looked over at him, shocked and a bit confused, from where he stood beside Watson near the wall. Everyone in the room was staring at the younger Holmes, who gave the room an oddly unsettling grin. "Tell Watson his interview is tomorrow, four o'clock sharp, at Mycroft's office. You know the address."


	4. It Starts Happening

_AN: Hello again everyone! I've been hard at work - as you can see. Here's another chapter to wet your whistles! Please remember that comments and critiques help keep my creative engine flowing! Thank you everyone for reading!_

_Disclaimer: _I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of its characters. I bow before the talented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat for the privilege of borrowing their characters for a bit of fun. Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing them with the world.__

**Chapter 4: It Starts Happening**

_"If things start happening, don't worry, don't stew, just go right along and you'll start happening too." - Dr Seuss_

On the small screen of his datalet, Mycroft watched his personal assistant (Theresa this month) lead Doctor John H Watson through the corridors of his office floor. Seated across from him, Sherlock was scribbling furiously on his datalet, plotting out a number of scientific experiments that he would be able to perform with Watson as their subject. A beautiful royal blue china tea service sat between them on a silver platter, and a silver three-tiered server held an assortment of small sandwiches, scones, and fruit.

Watson had obviously put forth some sort of effort for the interview; he was wearing a tasteful, if bland, two-piece, chocolate-brown, tweed suit with a similarly coloured tie and a khaki shirt. It wasn't a brand new suit, and it had obviously never been tailored, but it had definitely not seen much wear. He might have looked a bit dapper even, if the colour scheme had been more flattering and he had looked less like a sergeant from World War II stepping out of the history pages.

Theresa directed him to a chair outside and entered the office alone. Her nude, high-heeled pumps thumping authoritatively on the carpet. Mycroft looked up at her, but Sherlock did not. "Doctor Watson is outside, Sir. Shall I send him in now or would you like to wait a few minutes?"

"Send him in," Sherlock murmured, tapping a few more times on his screen. "We're wasting valuable time that I could be using to prepare more experiments."

"For the last time, Sherlock," Mycroft poured himself a cup of tea and rubbed his temple as he stirred sugar into it. "We are hiring him as your protector, your bodyguard, and also your battlefield medic, if necessary. We will assess his abilities with those skills in mind, not his potential as a subject for experimentation. Besides, there is still the ingenuity test to consider."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. You and I both know we are going to hire him." Sherlock didn't even bother looking up from his screen. "That test has no real-world value as it is; you just like watching people scurry about in a controlled environment."

Sucking a deep breath in through his nose and letting it out through his teeth with a quiet huff, Mycroft glanced almost pleadingly at his assistant. Theresa's pink-stained lips twitched in a very unsympathetic smirk before she closed the door and went to fetch Dr Watson. She returned in moments, and both Mycroft and Sherlock could hear her almost sarcastic stage whisper of 'good luck' as the doctor strode into the room.

Both Holmes brothers watched through their lashes as Doctor Watson approached the desk, his steps as precise as a military march. The doctor stood quietly and brought his arms around his back to clasp his right fist in his left hand. The stance reminded Sherlock of the at-ease position he'd seen many of Mycroft's guards and soldiers take up.

Mycroft gave an idle tap to his datalet screen, as if he were closing a program, before looking up at the subject of their interview. Sherlock had to fight his reaction to roll his eyes at his elder brother's dramatics. Watson just tilted his head very slightly to one side and waited.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Watson. Please have a seat." Mycroft gestured to the empty chair beside Sherlock. As the doctor sat, his back and shoulders set perfectly straight, Sherlock cast his eyes over him. Mycroft drew the third tea cup towards him and asked, "Do you take sugar and milk?"  
"Yes, Sir. Just one sugar is fine."

The cup was passed over, perfectly prepared, and Sherlock noted that John accepted and sipped from it left-handed. The brothers allowed him a few moments of quiet in which to fortify himself with tea. After a few swallows, Dr Watson placed his cup and saucer carefully onto the desk – it didn't even rattle. If he was nervous, it wasn't showing.

"I am Mycroft Holmes, Head of Defence for England's Homefront and the Military of the Afro-European Coalition. I understand that you are already, albeit briefly, acquainted with my brother, Sherlock?" Mycroft indicated Sherlock with a fluid wave of his hand. Watson nodded, but stayed quiet, his expression indicating mild interest. Mycroft continued, "Very well. You understand that you are here as an applicant for the post of Guardian for my brother?"

"If you'll forgive me," Watson's voice was courteous and apologetic, "what exactly does this post entail?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as his brother raised an elegant eyebrow disdainfully. Mycroft lifted his datalet dramatically and brought the screen back to life, pulling up his notes from the psychological report. "My brother occupies a position of our own design, wherein he is free to follow his own pursuits under the guise of consulting with the Homefront Provosts. Occasionally he also performs tasks for me, but such times are few and far between. As both of these undertakings usually involve threats to his physical well-being, I created the post of Guardian to act as his personal bodyguard. As his Guardian, you would take up lodgings within my brother's flat, and attempt to keep him safe from the various threats to his health and well-being that occur with alarming frequency during his daily life. Even when he is not on a case with the Provosts, there are still very real criminal threats to his person. You may also be required to act as a field medic depending on the situation. Finally, you would be responsible for typing up a weekly report and a case-length report of Sherlock's activities."

Watson glanced over at Sherlock, who seemed to be trying to stab his brother to death with his eyes. The younger Holmes noticed him looking and turned a questioning glance at the doctor. The left corner of Watson's mouth twitched and he stated, bluntly, "Basically I'd be your medical- and military-trained babysitter?"

Sherlock bristled. "You would be an extra pair of fists, if anything. I am fully capable of handling the so-called 'threats' from the inelegant class of petty criminals that London has to offer. Even the higher class of threats, though tedious, present little problem for me." He cast a moue of distaste at his elder brother. "As for the reports, that's just Mycroft being his usual controlling self."

"Sherlock," Mycroft snapped sharply, letting his datalet fall flat in his hand. His younger brother glared at him again. "We are on a schedule. If we could please continue the interview?" Sherlock made a flippant gesture with his expressive hands and sank back in his seat. Turning his attention back to the doctor, Mycroft lifted his datalet again. "Now then, your Curriculum Vitae is moderately impressive. You have a number honours to your name – courage, valour – and of course your marksmanship rating, which I find very agreeable. Your former superiors recommend you highly, and with a great deal of respect."

"Okay."

When Watson spoke no further, Mycroft tapped the corner of his datalet, "Your psychological profile mentions trust issues. Also post-traumatic stress disorder and a psychosomatic limp caused by your injuries."

"It's good to know _someone's_ been talking to my therapist." Watson shifted his shoulders a bit and tilted his chin down as his mouth thinned in an expression of discomfort.

"Mycroft, you know as well as I do those last two conclusions are fallacious." Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, fixing the doctor with an intelligent stare. "What is your opinion of the violin?"

Both Dr Watson's and Mycroft's brows came together in confusion. Watson leaned a bit forward and asked, "I'm sorry, what?"

"The violin. I play sometimes when I'm thinking, and there are times where I do not speak for days on end. Would that bother you?"

Watson leaned a bit back in his chair, a look of puzzlement wrinkling his forehead. "Okay, now I'm confused."

"As am I," Mycroft said sharply, turning to face his brother. "I thought we were interviewing him for the position of Guardian and not for his personal opinion of you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. We both know he's the most qualified for the job, you've seen the marksmanship and the fitness scores as well as I have, and he has the added benefit of being scientifically interesting." Sherlock turned back to Dr Watson with a sham of a smile. "This interview is just a formality really, Mycroft enjoys keeping people in the dark until the very last moment, like every proper villain does."

"Sherlock," Mycroft snapped again. "We both agreed to see all of the candidates in personal interviews before we made our final decision. There is also the final examination to consider."

"No, you stated the idea as a fact without any sign of deference to, or questioning of, myself. Also, your ridiculous 'ingenuity test' is utterly unnecessary."

Watson cleared his throat loudly. An amused smirk had lit his face. "Should I just go?"

"No, indeed, Doctor Watson." Mycroft stated with a degree of finality. "I have a few questions which," Sherlock cut him off by putting a scone onto his datalet screen.

"Eat that, Mycroft, you're much more genial when you have a pastry or two in you. Now, Doctor, in regards to your marksmanship rating, how well can you see, exactly? What magnification is your maximum?"

"This is not the time for biologic inquiries, Sherlock!"

"It's all right, Mr Holmes," the doctor inclined his head in Mycroft's direction. Mycroft subsided, his brow wrinkling in concern as Watson turned to face Sherlock again. Sherlock's brows rose in eagerness. Dr Watson's mouth curved up slightly in one corner and his eyes narrowed in an expression of sarcastic disapproval. "I can see very well, Mr Holmes. As to the magnification, you could easily read that in my file, which I'm sure you've already done. I'm not in the habit of answering personal questions like that myself."

"Your biology isn't personal," Sherlock stated as his eyes narrowed shrewdly. "It's a matter of public record. I simply wish to ascertain your first-hand knowledge. If I wished to speak of personal matters I would enquire if you disapprove of your brother because of his drinking habits or because he recently left his wife."

Watson shifted uneasily in his chair, his expression morphing from smirking sarcasm to confused concern. "What?"

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and brought a hand to his face to rub slow circles into the tense muscle at his temple, mentally throwing up his arms in vexation. He knew the look in his younger brother's eyes, and it boded very ill for the soldier. For once, he hoped his younger brother would simply act suitably mysterious and remain silent.

That last glimmer of hope died away as Sherlock opened his unstoppable, unfiltered mouth. "Your datalet, which you graciously allowed me to use when my last Guardian finally pissed off, told me all I needed to know. Let's start with the inscription, shall we? Three x's means three kisses, so obviously it was given to 'Harry' by 'Clara' as a gift of the romantic persuasion. They must have divorced recently considering it's a model from last year and relatively unused. and seeing as Harry has given it to you. If _she_ had broken it off he would have kept it, people are sentimental like that, so obviously _he_ left _her_. Now, perhaps I should mention the scuff marks around the power connection? You never see those kind of scratches on a sober man's datalet, and you never see a drunk's without them – it's caused by his hand shaking whenever he goes to plug it in at night. You're a moral man, judging by your CV and psychological profile, so you would of course find objection to both your brother's drinking and the divorce."

Mycroft opened his eyes and gave an almost pleading look at his brother, who was studying the doctor over his clasped hands with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. Watson blinked twice, then looked down at the pocket in which the datalet in question rested, then looked back up at Sherlock again, his forehead wrinkled in a way that might have indicated concern. Both Holmes brothers momentarily held their breath.

Watson licked his lips, one hand raising up to point a finger at the ceiling in a gesture that called to mind their father telling them both to wait. "That," he paused, pointing at Sherlock with each word, "was extraordinary."

Mycroft and Sherlock stared at the doctor for a moment, blinking, and then glanced at each other. Mycroft's face displayed a modicum of concern and a hint of confusion. Sherlock looked somewhat unsettled. At the same time, they turned to look at the doctor again and uttered, "What?"

"It was amazing. I mean, seriously, no one told you about Harry's drinking habits?"

"No," Sherlock swallowed suddenly. "There's no mention of your family except on your birth certificate and a small bit in the beginning of your CV – no names or anything.

"Jesus," Watson sat back heavily in his chair.

Mycroft quietly cast his gaze between the two men now staring at one another. Silence fell heavily in the room, and the elder Holmes cast a sidelong glance at his younger brother. He could count on perhaps one hand all the times Sherlock had ever been truly struck speechless before, but he never stayed that way for long. He held his breath when Sherlock softly cleared his throat.

Sherlock ventured, "You know, 'extraordinary' isn't what people usually say."

"What do they say?" John asked.

A nervous, blank sort of expression appeared on Sherlock's face, "Piss off."

Shock was not a strong enough word to describe the way Mycroft felt when Doctor John Watson out-and-out grinned, and Sherlock's response to said expression was an honest, shy smirk. Doctor Watson rose out of his seat and fixed his gaze on the elder Holmes brother, "There are worse jobs out there, I guess."

Both brothers looked completely taken aback. Mycroft managed to pull himself together, in the name of decorum at least, though inside he was nearly shaking with hope. No one had ever taken Sherlock's brash deductions in such stride before. He fought not to sound eager as he asked, "You can start tomorrow if that is convenient? I shall have Theresa text you the address of your new lodgings tonight."

With a nod, John reached out a hand to Sherlock, who stared at the offered appendage in confusion before shaking it firmly. The Holmes men stared at the soldier's back as he walked to the office door. Theresa came up into the doorway just as it was opened, and Watson paused in the doorway, drumming his fingers on the edge of the portal before casting a glance back at Sherlock over his shoulder.

"By the way," the doctor's voice was quietly amused, "Just so you know? Harry's a nickname."

"Of course it's a nickname," Sherlock said, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"It's short for Harriet."

Sherlock dropped his datalet onto his brother's desk with a 'thump'. His baritone voice was almost breathless, "She's your sister?"

Watson strode out the door, "See you tomorrow."

The door shut, thankfully, before Mycroft turned to fully take in the completely stunned look on his brother's face. It wouldn't do to have the rest of the office see their boss laughing as if all his Christmases had just come early. Sherlock was too busy mumbling angrily to himself to register the sound.

* * *

The concrete streets of London passed beneath Sherlock's feet without any notice from the man himself, too lost in thought as he was over the puzzle that was Doctor John H Watson. He wasn't even sure if one of Mycroft's drivers had taken him back to his flat, or if he had summoned a taxi and ridden in it to his destination. The next thing he knew he was standing inside the font door of his building staring at the stairwell.

People did not react favourably to his deductions. Not ever. Yet Dr Watson had, twice now, stared at him in honest incredulity without a hint of malice or anger, even at the mention of such an unsavoury topic as his _sister's _alcoholism. The doctor hadn't even insulted him, even when correcting a minor _mistake_ (and how he did _despise mistakes_). Sherlock was so used to being faced with anger, rage, or smug disapproval that, when faced with acceptance, he was utterly lost.

"Welcome back, Sherlock dear." His landlady, Mrs Hudson, had appeared in the doorway of her own flat on the right of the hall, with a falsely cheery smile. She held a dish towel in her wrinkled hands and was twisting it anxiously. "How did it go?"

"I have a new Guardian. He will be arriving tomorrow."

She looked surprised and gripped the towel close to her stomach. "So soon? Didn't you have another test for him to go through?"

Sherlock snorted derisively, "Mycroft's insipid ingenuity test. It's just another excuse to watch a group of people escape a controlled environment. We're disregarding it completely."

Mrs Hudson frowned at him as he walked almost hesitantly towards the stairs. "Are you sure you're all right dear? You seem a bit," she wiggled her hand a bit back and forth, "distracted?"

Setting one foot on the bottom stair, he rested his hands on both banisters. "I deduced that he didn't like the fact that his sister drank heavily and had also walked out on her lover."

His sidelong glance showed him the soft look of commiseration that had taken up almost permanent residence on her face whenever he mentioned that he had deduced someone. She tilted her chin towards the floor as she said, "Oh Sherlock, what did he say?"

"He said," he swallowed and his voice sounded confused, "he said it was extraordinary."

Her gasp of surprise chased him up the stairs and into his chaotic flat. Really, he couldn't blame her. He was pretty sure he was surprised himself.

People did not answer his deductions with compliments. They did not correct any of his intuitive leaps offhandedly without sneering at him, nor did many of them refrain from physical retaliations depending on the emotional ramifications of his revelations. No one corrected him without throwing his mistakes in his face. And they most certainly did not do all of those things more than once.

"Sister," he mumbled to himself. "It's always something."

He glanced around at the scientific detritus that littered the flat as he tossed his suit coat over the arm of the couch. Papers littered the coffee table, and some of the floor near the couch, and several books were scattered haphazardly over the same area. There was a pile of books precariously perched on one end table, and a stack of case files on the square dining table he used as a desk. Sheet music littered the same corner of the room as the dust-disaster of a shelf with it's disorganized books and knick-knacks. The hearth mantle sported a skull, a short pile of mail impaled by a thick, short jack-knife, and several souvenirs from some of his more interesting solved cases. Every available space was littered with evidence or notes or maps, papers and books and files, until even the original architect would have had trouble telling the actual dimensions of the flat.

Striding forward, he took in the state of the kitchen as well. An entire chemical laboratory set up covered the dining table that served as an island in the kitchen. The microwave sat all by it's lonesome against one wall on its own little table, and the counter space was taken over by a toaster oven, a regular toaster, a coffee maker, an electric kettle, a spice rack, a slow cooker, and every place that might have been open space had either a box or a beaker or flask sitting in it. The refrigerator looked completely innocent, but Sherlock knew the interior boasted no less than two pieces of human anatomy, and four dead rats, at various stages of decomposition or preservation.

Very briefly he wondered if he should attempt to clean the place up. Doctor Watson was a military and medical man, after all, and was thus (probably) excessively tidy. He shook that idea away; he only needed the man to satisfy his intellectual curiosity after all. The man didn't need to be comfortable, and if Sherlock made the place inhospitable enough to annoy him then one day he could push the doctor to the brink and make him quit. The perfect plan, and then all he would have to do is devise a way to make sure another 'guardian' wasn't foisted upon him.

That settled it; the first task, as far as he was concerned, was to learn every possible limit of his new bodyguard's abilities. The second, was to make the man feel just unwelcome and uncomfortable to get the man to quit. His last task was to make sure that Mycroft got rid of the damn Guardian position and stopped bothering him.

There wasn't much he could do about the experiments besides go over his plans. Doctor Watson wouldn't be at the flat until the following day. He could start on the 'make him uncomfortable/unwelcome' part of the plan though. Lifting up his datalet again, Sherlock swiftly selected a call number and listened to it dial.

"Molly, I'm going to need you to put two pairs of lungs, ten fingers, a foot, and three livers in a cooler; and if you could find a severed head as well I'd be grateful." On the other end of the line Doctor Molly Hooper, the Medical Examiner for the Homefront Provosts, squeaked in surprise and stuttered something about protocols. Sherlock ignored her protests, "I'll be by in an hour to pick them up."

Ringing off, he set about making the biggest scientific mess he could manage with relish. His datalet read out his experiment ideas in a flatter version of his own voice – a text-to-speech engine of his own design that he could update frequently with the correct pronunciations of various scientific terms that most computer voices completely mangled. As he readied a number of various chemicals to boil, and tugged out a plethora of mix-matched containers and lids, footsteps on the stairs called a sliver of his attention.

_[Kitten heels, slight hitch in the gate – favouring a leg, the left. Mrs Hudson?]_

"Hoo-hoo!" Mrs Hudson's face appeared in the doorway leading from the kitchen to the landing as she knocked a fist against the jamb. "Thought I might pop up and see if you wanted me to get the second bedroom prepared? Or is he going to be camping out in the living room like the last one?"

"No need, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock waved vaguely at the stairs. "I'm quite sure he can handle it on his own. Unless of course he _wants_ to kip on the sofa."

"Sherlock!"

Cringing at the tone of her voice, Sherlock turned to see the shocked and dismayed look on his landlady's face as she took in the state of the apartment. She disappeared into the living room and he could hear her skirt rustling as she walked around. She reappeared in the opening of the sliding glass partition that separated the living room from the kitchen.

An extremely cross frown had taken over her usually cheery countenance. "The mess you've made! I mean, really?"

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, it's all part of the plan!"

"Which plan would that be, young man, the plan to break your neck in the middle of the night tripping over Lord-knows-what?"

"Don't be silly, I know where everything is!" A glint of silver caught his eye from among the dishes in the sink and he reached in a hand. Pulling free a pair of beaker tongs he smiled. "I've been looking for these."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Mrs Hudson threw up her hands and turned to the floor, shuffling a few papers up and placing them on the coffee table. "You're going to make a horrible impression on your nice new Guardian. You'll undo his being impressed after being on the other end of your deductions."

"He's a recently returned combat veteran, a Navy doctor. I doubt a few papers and some books strewn about are going to bother him." Sherlock strode into the living room and removed the books she had just lifted up from the floor and dropped them back down. "If you insist on doing something to make him feel at home, I will not stop you. In the meantime, I will be down here preparing some new experiments."

She graced him with a very sour look, complete with her hands fisted at her hips and her chin set in a pugnacious pout. An arthritic finger poked him in the chest, "You'd best have this mess cleaned up by the time he arrives tomorrow or I will be very cross with you. Honestly, you don't even know him yet!"

"I don't need to know him," Sherlock stated primly. "I've already deduced that he is a friendly, boring, poor individual with atrocious taste in clothing that recently returned from conflict in Afghanistan with a shoulder injury. He's also a combat medic and an exceptional marksman, and he's distastefully American though he tries to hide his accent." His nose scrunched up as if a foul smell had drifted up his nostrils. "It's still noticeable. If he weren't military trained, I doubt I'd give him a second glance. He's also genetically enhanced, instead of with cybernetics, which is intriguing enough to warrant his sticking around just long enough for me to exhaust my already long list of experiment ideas before pushing him to leave."

Mrs Hudson's brow contracted and she peered up at him. Sighing in defeat, she moved towards the stairs up to the second bedroom of the flat. Three steps later, she turned around to him, shaking her head at his sham of an encouraging smile. Tutting, she softly stated, "He also complimented you. That doesn't happen often, dear."

The smile disappeared from his face like water sponge-wiped from a granite counter. "No," he whispered to himself, "it does not."

* * *

Doctor John H Watson arrived at 221B Baker Street at nine o'clock sharp with a heavyweight sea bag, a back pack, two medium-size cardboard boxes, and no fan fare at all. Martha Hudson opened the door cautiously, not really knowing what to expect. It certainly wasn't the boyish, absolutely charming smile and bright blue eyes that she was faced with.

"Good morning, ma'am," there was a flat sharpness to his consonants and vowels that she remembered well from her time spent in the Americas, long before the last war. "I'm sorry if I've disturbed you. I'm John Watson, Sherlock's new Guardian?"

"Hello, Sir, please come in." Martha smiled politely at him. "Sherlock's just upstairs in his flat. I'm Mrs Hudson, the landlady."

Placing his boxes carefully to the side of the entrance, he dusted his hand off by wiping it against the thigh of his jeans. His handshake was warm, dry, and solid. It wasn't a test or a show of strength. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Hudson, and please, call me John."

She really does want to like him. He seems truly friendly, and the genuine smile that graces his face is just so open her heart clenches. Sherlock was going to run over the poor man like a lorry hitting a squirrel. Poor thing, she thought as she lead him up the stairs, he wasn't going to last very long.

With difficulty, she held back a groan of exasperation as she walked into Sherlock's living room. Lying on the sofa, still in the same shirt and suit pants he'd been wearing the previous day, was Sherlock himself with his hands palms-together just beneath his chin as he stared up at the ceiling. He might have looked like a marble effigy if not for the apocalyptic mess of papers and books and _things_ all over the place. He obviously hadn't bothered listening to her advice the previous evening. At least it didn't smell horrible; it smelled sort of like someone was boiling pear drops.

She gave their newest arrival an apologetic glance, and was surprised to see him looking around the place with a mixture of confusion and intrigue. She watched him very slowly lower his boxes and bags to the ground just inside the doorway to the living room, his nose twitching as if he were trying to place the smell in the air. Sherlock didn't actually look up, but Martha could see the smirk that slowly arrived on his face.

"Well," she sighed, "this is the living room. The bathroom is down that hall at the end, and Sherlock's room is that second door there on the right. The first door is a coat closet, and that one on the left is the linen closet. There's a second bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing it."

Watson's brows drew together in confusion, "I think that will be fine, unless there's another person living here I don't know about?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock's baritone drifted over to them as the tall man dragged himself into a sitting position. "Some of my previous Guardians preferred to sleep here on the sofa. They thought it would deter me from leaving the flat at 'odd hours' of the night."

Martha rolled her eyes, "It didn't. And if you'd had any sense at all, it should have." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw John's mouth twitch in a smirk. He had a very expressive face for a military man. "Honestly, Sherlock dear, you could try harder to be a little less contrary."

Sherlock ignored her words, but she knew he couldn't ignore the accusing glare she levelled at him. He glanced at her for half a second, and then asked his new Guardian, "If you like I can have Mycroft send someone to collect the rest of your things?"

A proud little smile curved her lips as Martha gave him a tiny nod. She turned a warmer smile at her other guest when he cleared his throat. Her smile turned into a frown as he looked uncomfortably down at the bags and boxes he'd arrived with.

John cleared his throat and said flatly, "These _are_ all my things."

A packed sea bag, a knapsack, and two medium boxes. Everything he owned in the world, and it fit in two bags and a pair of boxes. Martha's heart went out to him. She hadn't really given much thought to what Sherlock had said the night before; Sherlock wore clothes that cost more than her entire wardrobe, after all, so his view of 'poor' was a bit skewed. Glancing at Sherlock, who sat blinking at his Guardian silently, should have been able to deduce by the clothes John wore alone that 'poor' didn't begin to cover it.

John's eyes traced the dimensions of the room and Martha held her breath as she followed his line of sight to the human skull sitting on the mantle. Her heart dropped into her stomach as the Guardian raised an eyebrow. His eyes slid back to Sherlock, who's face showed a deliberate blankness.

Lips twisting into a smirk, John stated, "Nice skull. Old friend?"

Fighting to keep her jaw from dropping, Martha almost missed the tentative twitch of Sherlock's mouth as it formed an answering smirk. The baritone of her tenant's voice was wry, "That depends on your definition of friend."

A huff of laughter came from John's mouth and the Guardian bent down to retrieve his belongings. Sherlock stood up and strode over to the doorway as John turned to mount the stairs to the second bedroom. Slinging an arm around her shoulders, the tall detective steered her back towards the downstairs.

"Tea, Mrs Hudson, and biscuits."  
"I'm not your house keeper, dear, or your maid."

"Of course not, but you were the one who wanted to make the good impression. Come now, show bit of British hospitality to the American savage."

Paused four steps up, John leaned against the banister until it creaked, clearing his throat. He fixed a stern glare on Sherlock, who surprisingly paused, his arm still trying to steer her off the landing. "It might be for the best, Mrs Hudson. After all, judging by the smell, Sherlock's electric kettle is too busy boiling ethyl acetate to be safe for making tea."

Beside her, Sherlock's entire body stiffened. Looking up into his face, she could see the blank, almost vacant way he stared down towards the front door of the building. She couldn't stop the smile that spread over her face as she took in Sherlock frozen in surprise. He looked slowly down at her, a light of childish excitement in his eyes. Still smiling, she reached up and patted his cheek.

"I'll be back up in a minute, Sherlock. Go clear a spot on the coffee table."

* * *

Sherlock and John sat opposite each other in the armchairs before the unlit fireplace. Between them was an octagonal end table Sherlock had dragged over, on top of which sat Mrs Hudson's best tea set. Over the rim of his cup, Sherlock regarded his new Guardian with a shrewd stare.

Watson's eyes were roving the room, alighting on one or another piece of what-not that was piled about the space. His brows twitched together and apart as he took everything in. His nose twitched as he glanced behind him at the kitchen.

"How did you know about the ethyl acetate?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice fairly low.

"When it hits the boiling point is smells like pear candy." John finally looked him in the face, a sarcastic smile gracing his lips. "I also know there's body parts in there some where. I can smell the blood."

Sherlock's smile was wolfish, "Fascinating. You wouldn't answer my questions while we were in Mycroft's office. Will you answer them now?"

Putting down his empty cup, Watson leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his stomach. He regarded the man across from him with a straightforward stare. It was the kind of look most people expected when a wild predator crossed their path – studied and patient, with just a hint of curiosity. Most people found it unnerving, and Sherlock was apparently no exception, judging by the way he shifted just a bit in his seat and took a moment to empty his cup.

Sighing, John opened his body language back up, leaning to his right and placing his elbow on the arm of the chair. Resting his chin in his right hand, he placed his left flat on the opposite arm. Holmes was obviously not going to make the job any easier without some form of olive branch passed between them. "Why are you so interested? I mean, I know you had access to my records, my CV. Why ask me?"

Holmes' eyes lit up as he placed his own cup back on the tray and clasped his hands in front of his chin, his elbows resting on the arms of his seat. "Paperwork can tell me many things, but I am a studier of people themselves. What's written in those files tells me what others have observed of you, but I am never satisfied by the opinions of inferior minds. I prefer to personally observe, and hear things directly from, the source."

One of John's expressive eyebrows crawled slowly up his forehead. His voice dripped with sarcasm, "So I was basically hired to satisfy your curiosity. Glad to know all my hard work amounts to nothing."

Brows lowering thunderously, Sherlock lowered his tone and raised his volume, "Don't be ridiculous. You're 'hard work' as you describe it merely helped ease my brother's insipid overbearing need to shove the most qualified brute of a spy into my life to exert as much control over me as possible. You're a pawn in his game, but at least this time I can get some scientific knowledge out of it. You don't seem nearly as inclined to try intimidating me into submission or to overlook my obviously great intellect out of mulish ignorance."

John's thin lips slowly smiled, baring canine teeth slightly larger than average. Sherlock's expression moved from smug to blankly indifferent as the reminder that Watson's bite was particularly venomous rose up in his mind. The doctor ran his tongue along the edge of his upper teeth, then said calmly, "I don't deal very well with intimidation myself."

"I can imagine."

Silence fell, and both men regarded the other with cold calculation. John had never been put off by people who were more intelligent than himself. Sherlock had never been intrigued by a person less intelligent than himself. It was a strange sense of stalemate that settled over them as they each frowned in the other's direction.

It was John who broke the silence, sensing somehow that any overtures of peacemaking would have to be made on his part alone. "I looked you up last night. Found your website – the Science of Deduction?"

Intrigued, Sherlock felt a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth, "Your thoughts?"

John's face expressed a hint of scepticism, "You said you could tell an airline pilot from his left thumb."

"I can read your military career in your gait and your appearance, and your _sister's_ drinking habits from your datalet. Why should my being able to tell an airline pilot by his left thumb strike you as an exaggeration?"

Nodding in acceptance, John dropped his right arm to the chair and got to his feet. He stood in the middle of the room, staring at the windows and the furniture. Slowly, he began to move slowly about the room, glancing through the glass out into the street and back at the interior as he went. "Can you do that with anyone?"

"Of course," Sherlock's voice held a bit of intrigue as he watched his new Guardian tracing the confines of the living room. His brows rose suddenly and he stated, "You are testing the lines of sight between the buildings on the opposite side of the street and the flat."

An absent smirk took up residence on Watson's face, "Even a sniper without cybernetic enhancements could kill us from any where in this living room. We should invest in some shades and curtains."

"Could you kill them back?"

John snorted, "Not if we're already dead. I see the other side of the street very well though, if that's what you're asking."

"You still haven't answered my question from yesterday."

"I could spot a rabbit from a helicopter fifteen thousand feet in the air." The smirk returned, "I could also kill it with the right equipment."

It was Sherlock's turn to snort. "That's quite a distance. Though, I suppose your accuracy in shooting also depends on the usual factors?"

"Wind speed, distance, equipment, yes." John entered the kitchen then backed into the living room again, his whole face frowning. "Do you ever use the kitchen for actually making food?"

"No. Food slows me down. When I eat at all it's usually take out or something Mrs Hudson has brought up."

As Sherlock observed him, something that didn't seem to really bother Watson in the least, John mapped out the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator. He closed the door immediately, "And that would be a severed head." He leaned back, one hand still against the door, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead and his mouth twisted in grimace. "Why is there a severed head?"

"I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death."

"Right, of course. Why didn't I think of that?" John rolled his eyes, and shook his head, glaring doubtfully at the fridge before moving out of the kitchen again and into the hall. He paused just before the door of Sherlock's room. Turning his face back to his charge with one eyebrow raised, he asked, "Do you mind if I take a look around?"

Sherlock inclined his head in the affirmative and watched as the doctor disappeared into the bedroom. He could hear the sound of John tentatively pacing out the dimensions, and could imagine the man was comparing the dimensions with that of the attic bedroom. He knew the room was nearly spotless compared to the rest of the flat. It would be a bit of a puzzle for the doctor to wonder about.

Watson exited the bedroom and poked his way down the hall to the bathroom, disappearing inside after a quick check of the linen and coat closets. Sherlock took the opportunity to bolt up the stairs to the other bedroom. Downstairs, he heard an aborted shout and a grumble like low thunder. Ignoring it with a smirk of anticipation, Sherlock threw open the door.

Apparently, John had already made himself at home in the room, as the boxes and bags were absent from the floor. The boxes were broken down and stored beneath the bed, and the duffel- and sea bags had been folded neatly and laid on top. Beside them, nearly hiding the hospital corners of the brown bedspread, lay a black donkey jacket, a desert camouflage fatigue jacket, a black pea-coat with anchor-engraved silver buttons, and a plain green rain coat. John had shoved the bed beneath the window, and against the wall, the night-stand placed exactly where a left-handed person would find it most convenient. There was a power strip laid along the floor, into which was plugged a serviceable black desk lamp, the charging station for his datalet, and an alarm clock.

The top 2 drawers of the single, six-drawer, particle board dresser that someone or another had purchased and left there, were full of socks and under garments, all neatly folded and filed. Half full of black or white, Sherlock found a few articles in unexpected reds, greens, and bright patterns towards the back. A lower drawer boasted several pairs of colourfully patterned flannel pyjama trousers and a collection of cotton tee-shirts in solid earth tones. Pairs of jeans filled another drawer, and one had what were probably exercise shorts, tank tops, and vests.

A study in neatness, the closet boasted a group of sweatshirts, sweaters, and jumpers in bland patterns, a line of better quality tee-shirts that he didn't bother poking at, a few plaid button downs and several dress shirts in varying degrees of white, blue, or beige. On the far right, separated by three two-piece suits in navy, black, and dark brown, was a line of khaki, navy, black, and brown trousers to mix and match with the dress shirts. Against the right side wall, almost hidden, was two pairs of military fatigues, and two dress bags. A group of serviceable shoes in black or brown, four pairs of trainers in various states of newness, and two pair of military boots lined the closet floor. On the shelf above the hanger rack sat three packages of extra bedsheets, a small fire safe, a bedroll, two spare blankets that had probably seen better days, and a military-grade medical kit.

In the bottom drawer of the night-stand was a set of boxer shorts and black vest tops. The top drawer held a set of pill bottles – a prescription-grade painkiller and a muscle relaxant, a multivitamin, fibre, omega-3 gel caps. Pushed to the rear was a bottle of lube, which made Sherlock smirk to himself. But nothing could distract him for long from the real prize – the gun safe.

Which was empty. Damn it.

The foam impression told him it usually cradled a Baretta, probably an M9, and there was one clip missing from the brand new open ammo box. The clips weren't a make he was familiar with, though that could have been because he mostly focused on the weapons used by the Afro-European Union. They were the right relative size and shape for an M9, but the colour seemed off.

"It's an M9A1 actually."

Sherlock twitched violently, banging his knee on the drawer as he leapt a foot backwards and settled into a defensive stance. Watson leaned against the door jamb, his arms crossed over his chest, with an amused expression on his face. With a few jerky movements, Sherlock pulled his body back to its proper height and clasped his left hand in his right as he regarded his Guardian down the length of his nose.

"The clips are sand-resistant." John reached back to his waistband and pulled out a beautifully crafted black pistol. He ejected the magazine with a flick of his finger, the motion smooth as second-nature. "PVD coating. It reduces friction, and is designed to reduce grit accumulation in the column. It's reliable and functional even in the most averse weather conditions." Cocking his head to the side inquiringly, Watson asked, "Did you know you were talking to yourself?"

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, "I often find that speaking aloud allows me to make better intuitive connections." His brows came together in the middle of his forehead, "When did you get up here?"

"About the same time you started poking around in my underwear." John's head ticked to the other side. "You didn't hear me?"

Waving his hand rapidly in the air in dismissal, Sherlock moved forward to grasp at the pistol. John slipped out of range, spinning the pistol languidly around his finger in the trigger guard, effectively making it impossible for Sherlock to grab the barrel. There was cold calculation in Watson's eyes as he looked Sherlock up and down, holding the gun just out of reach. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of footsteps on the stairs below caught both their attentions.

In seconds, Watson slid the magazine back home and the pistol was replaced in his waistband. He did it without even looking away from the doorway; a movement that must have been performed countless times to occur so smoothly. From within the stairwell, a gruff voice rose up and bounced off the walls with an echoing quality.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, but I don't really have any time to be wasting. This is the first time we've got anything to work with and, God help me, I need his help to get the higher ups off my bloody back!"

John took a half-step back, turning himself so he could see both the doorway and his charge. Sherlock's eyes and face had lit up with the sort of glee a hunter might have shown when a deer darted beneath his blind. The slowly growing smug smirk that overtook his mouth was anything but reassuring.

As a grey-haired, weary looking man in a charcoal tweed overcoat appeared on the landing, Sherlock moved forward and John stepped a bit further back. "Ah, Provost Marshal," Holmes said in welcome, "I take it there's been a fourth."


	5. Dostoevsky Beast

_AN: Hello my dears! Here's a brand spanking new chapter for you! Moving right along. Sorry that I don't have a set schedule - I've been struggling a bit personally and it's starting to take its toll. I'm pushing through though, and hopefully the next chapter will pour out as relatively smoothly as this one did! Thank you all for reading, and commenting, and criticizing constructively when I need it. You're the reason I do this, and every bit of feedback you give gets my fingers itching for a keyboard. Thank you so much for your support!_

_Disclaimer: _I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of its characters. I bow before the talented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat for the privilege of borrowing their characters for a bit of fun. Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing them with the world.__

**Chapter 5: Dostoevsky Beast**

"_People speak sometimes about the "bestial" cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts; no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel."― Fyodor Dostoevsky_

"Yes, there's been a fourth one, and this one finally left a note." The silver-haired man sighed wearily, rubbing a hand over his chin. "S'just one word, but will you come? I know the whole Guardian thing is a problem, but we can sort it out later. Besides, the place is crawling with Provosts"

Sherlock tilted his head back so he could look down his strong nose. "Who is on forensics today?"

"Anderson," the man, who's name was 'Lestrade' John remembered, replied and held up a hand to stall the objection that would inevitably follow the groan that escaped Sherlock's throat. "I know, I know, but he's not going to be assisting you."

"The fact that he'll even be present is an affront to my intellectual process."

The groan that left the other man was the sort of sound a father might make when his child asked the question 'why' for the forty-eighth time in a row. "Sherlock, seriously, will you please come?"

"Of course." Holmes smiled when the other man sighed in obvious relief. "But I'll not be going in your police car. Text me the address and run along. My new Guardian and I will be right behind." He indicated John, who stood silently beside them watching the exchange, with a wave of his hand.

"Even better," the other man said, partly relieved but mostly surprised. He cast a quick glance over John's worn clothing, but his face was set in an almost pleased expression. Obviously he approved that of all people, John Watson, who had saved one of his own men, was now Sherlock's Guardian.

As the man turned about and moved back down the stairs, his footsteps heavy on the old wood, Sherlock cast his eyes over John's outfit. The shapeless grey sweatshirt with its faded, navy, fouled anchor and baggy light denim jeans in which he was clad did nothing to give any idea of his physical form. It was more the sort of thing a fraternity pledge might have worn in between classes.

"We need to change." Sherlock said matter-of-factly, smoothing his hand over the sleeve of his day-old shirt. "We're going to a crime scene. Try to look intimidating or professional. I'll meet you at the front door in ten minutes. I'll have Mrs Hudson call us a taxi."

John blocked his exit from the room, "Why?"

Groaning, Sherlock's shoulders slumped. Apparently the man was going to be difficult. "I'm a consulting detective. When the Provosts find themselves out of their depth, which is almost always, they come to me to lead their tiny little brains to the solutions of their crimes. If you wear something that looks less like a university student on laundry day they'll," he was cut off as John held up a fist.

Watson lifted a fist with a smile and opened his hand. Dangling from his forefinger was a blue and white spiral wristband with three keys, an electronic fob, and a charm shaped like a little blue telephone box attached to it. "I meant 'why get a cab'. My car's parked outside."

"You have a car?" Sherlock's eyes lit up. "How American. I'll drive."

"Not on your life," John grumbled as the detective flitted out the door and down the stairs.

It took Sherlock eight minutes exactly to strip out of his old shirt and trousers and switch into a new suit. He chose a white shirt and a black suit with very subtle white pinstripes. Buttoning the suit jacket, he slipped back into the hall and whipped his scarf and coat out of the closet. Checking in the pockets of his Belstaff coat, he found his lambskin gloves and slipped them on, stretching his fingers to feel the flex of the fabric. Smiling, he moved towards the stair landing and prepared to shout up to his Guardian to hurry up.

Instead, John was already leaning against the banister half way down the stairwell, speaking calmly to Mrs Hudson standing in her doorway. Gone was the comfortable clothing – the donkey jacket that hugged Watson's square shoulders was well-kept, almost new, and the black fatigue pants he wore were just loose not to inhibit any movement. A graphite grey shirt peaked through the V-neck of the coal-black, cable-knit jumper that showed through the open front of the coat. Sherlock noted the usually plastic or PVC panels of the coat had been made instead with butter-soft dark brown leather, and the subtle bulk and a peek of the strap of a shoulder holster could be seen through the open front of it.

John glanced briefly up at the door of the flat before flashing Mrs Hudson an apologetic smile. It was a boyish expression, and Sherlock had a feeling it had seen a lot of use diffusing tense situations. Mrs Hudson was obviously not immune. She had a look on her face that Sherlock saw often directed towards abandoned kittens and small children. Barely a few hours and she was already a lost cause – this would make the moment Watson outlived his usefulness much harder than the others. She hadn't been saddened at all when the previous Guardians had left.

Sherlock glided down the staircase, his Belstaff coat flaring out behind him. "Might be out late tonight, Mrs Hudson. Good evening!"

"What? Already?"

"No use sitting about, is there? Not with something fun to do!" He gave her a saucy wink and kissed her on the cheek. "The game is on, Mrs Hudson!"

She gave him a fond pat on the hip as he bounced out the door. "Look at him. Not decent, is it? Him being so happy?"

Very close behind him, Sherlock heard Watson speak in an amused voice, "No, Mrs Hudson. A bit not good, I'd say. Good evening."

Luckily the sound of the door shutting covered the odd sort of surprised sound Sherlock made in his throat when he realized John was half a step behind him. He hadn't even heard the other man descend the stairs. Glancing down, he noticed John was wearing black combat boots – he really should have made a lot more noise walking down the stairs.

Parked ten feet from the doorway of the flat, with its engine already running, was a Jeep Wrangler, its slate-blue paint shimmering faintly in the midday sun. It was immaculately kept, with matte accents in charcoal grey instead of gaudy chrome, and a hardtop the same colour as the paint of its body. Box-like and militaristic, it looked rugged and dependable – much like its owner. Sherlock planted himself firmly at the right side door and looked to John, holding his hand out for the key.

John gave him a flat stare and moved to the other side of the car. Raising one eyebrow, he held the key fob up at shoulder height and Sherlock could hear the locks disengage. Watson waited for a few moments, standing completely still, then raised an eyebrow before waiting some more. After a full five minutes, John just rolled his eyes and opened the door, getting into the seat. Sherlock smiled smugly and then looked into the window as he reached for the door handle.

Sighing in defeat, he opened the door and sank into the very comfortable cloth _passenger_ seat. He wasn't on the driver's side. Bloody Americans drove on the left. Heathens.

While John checked the view of the mirrors and slotted his datalet into the vehicle's docking port, Sherlock surveyed the interior. The passenger seat was roomy enough that even had Sherlock perhaps possessed another dozen or so centimetres of height his knees still wouldn't have bumped the glove box. Dark grey cotton fabric wrapped every inch of the comfortable seats, and there was an icon on the instrument panel that indicated they were also heated.

Grey and black plastic covered every other inch, and there didn't seem to be a speck of dust anywhere. The windows were streak-free, the mirrors were spotless, and the vent clip began to fill the air with light orange scent when the engine began to purr almost instantaneously with John turning the key. There were only three personal pieces at all inside the front seat, and Sherlock wondered if it were simply a new vehicle, or if John really was that clean.

Clipped to the passenger side visor was a pair of guardian angels, one for a brother and the other for a son, both blessing safety on the driver. There had been no mention at all of any religious affiliations in Watson's file, so they must have remained there for personal reasons rather than faith. Dangling from the rear-view mirror was a plastic, egg-shaped object painted white and beige on the bottom with long brown spikes sticking up from it's back. Sherlock took hold of it and gave it a few tilts while John checked the roadway for traffic before pulling away from the curb.

It was supposed to resemble a hedgehog, the detective concluded. Grasping it carefully, Sherlock checked the bottom of it and found a small note painted on the bottom in careful handwriting: '__Good luck 3C - Semper Fi til we die – Bill__' '. It was obviously a gift from one of John's brothers-in-arms, and Holmes wondered what sort of nickname '3C' must have been.

"Friend of mine made it while we were in the hospital together," John said softly as he smoothly joined the traffic flow. He seemed to have no problem driving on the opposite side of the road than he probably did normally. "Sort of a 'congratulations on not being dead and having to go to physical therapy' present."

Refusing to get bogged down with sentimental chitchat before a case, Sherlock changed the subject by poking at John's datalet screen. "You've been in England for a out a month, correct? You've acclimated very well to our traffic flow."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see John's mouth twist wryly. "You do realize that in every country I've been deployed to they drove on the left, right?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock flicked through John's message folder. Mostly, it was full of boring messages from Harry or Dr Stamford. There were a few more interesting ones down at the bottom of the queue from nine odd contact names: Spydre, Twitch, Bull, Divot, Vanish, Pushyou, Pullme, Flounder, and Zilch. These were written mostly in a combination of emojis, numbers, acronyms, and shorthand that Sherlock felt he was looking at a new foreign language.

John sighed, "If you're going to poke around my datalet, the least you could do is put the address for the crime thingy into the GPS."

"Scene," Sherlock huffed as he changed a few ringtone settings before complying, just to make his displeasure at being told what to do known. The mocking sort of smile on Watson's lips that the detective could see in the corner of his eye made him realize he was being deliberately baited. He continued to poke around in the programs, looking for something to mock and found a good target in the music folder, "Ah, and what is this? Labelled playlists? You really are quaint."

Tapping the list labelled 'Driving Music - City', Sherlock prepared to poke fun at John's musical tastes when Vivaldi began to pour out the speakers. Watson's smirk was a strange cross between wry and smug. "I find listening to Classical music while driving in the city helps keep me more focused."

Score one for the doctor – Sherlock had always enjoyed classical music, but none of the other men who had held the Guardian position had ever given it a second thought. It was almost fun to annoy them with impromptu, and sometimes butchered, concerts on his violin at odd hours of the day and night. For now though the information gave Sherlock the incentive to perhaps turn the tide of conversation back to making John uncomfortable.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," Sherlock stated almost off-handedly, "especially during all hours of the night, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. I perform scientific experiments all over the flat – kitchen, bathroom, occasionally the living room when I have space – would that bother you?"

"No?" Successfully navigating a traffic circle, John glanced over at the odd, slightly creepy smile that had taken up residence on Sherlock's face. "Thanks for the warning?"

"Well, we are going to be living together. I thought it best to get our worst traits out in the open."

Save the sound of cellos purring softly through the speakers just above the sound of the engine, the car fell silent. Watson's grip turned white-knuckled as his grip tightened on the charcoal felt cover on the steering wheel. Sherlock wasn't sure the doctor would even answer. Then, John took in a deep breath through his nose, "If I don't have at least one cup of Folgers within ten minutes of waking up I can become homicidal." The doctor's face settled in grim expression. "I have an American accent that tends to get worse the angrier I am, and I tend to swear a lot. Oh, and let's not forget the PTSD-induced night terrors. You don't mind if I scream bloody murder at oh-dark-thirty in the morning, right?"

Sherlock wasn't really sure how to answer that. He settled for fiddling with the buttons of his coat for a few moments and let the silence grow. A new note added itself into the noise of the car engine and the violins that began in a new song on the radio. At first, he thought a truck was idling nearby where they were waiting at a red traffic light. Then, it got louder as a tiny red Mini-Cooper skidded through a turn just as the light changed, and Sherlock realized the noise was coming from the man beside him.

"Are you growling?" The detective turned his full attention on the doctor, riveted. The sound stopped abruptly as soon as he finished speaking.

John swallowed and his jaw muscle tightened for a moment. He took in and released a long breath of air, then asked, "So are you going to tell me about the crime scene?"

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock scrutinized the tenseness of the doctor's countenance before answering. "Have you been reading the papers at all?"

One of Watson's brows lifted, "The suicides?"

"This one left a note. The last three left nothing behind but their corpses. Lestrade must be getting desperate if he was willing to pull me in, Guardian or not."

"Why's that?"

Giving his Defender a sharkish smile, Sherlock took in a deep breath and spoke with deliberate speed, "Firstly he would have taken forever to realize the commonality between all the crimes, something I warned him about after the second death. No one expects a serial killer's weapon of choice to be suicide. Secondly, Anderson is an idiot. It would take him months to finish collecting all the forensic data I can see in five minutes and it would take him twice as long to correlate everything into an intelligent report. In the meantime he'd be so behind the killer would have a dozen victims or more and we'd never see the end of it. Finally, the other Provosts are always reluctant to call me in as it makes them look remarkably stupid when I solve a case they have been working on for months in a matter of hours."

When his rant was finally over, John snorted in disbelief and smirked at him. "Do me a favour and try to keep your ego contained in the back seat? There's no room for it up here."

Sherlock turned his head to look out the passenger side window, trying to hide his own grin. In truth, he had expected the man to ask him to repeat himself, not joke with him. It was a new experience, having someone keep up with him.

Wiggling his legs, Sherlock regained control of his face and turned back to say, "It's rare to find a car capable of not pushing my knees into my ears. I doubt my ego will be a problem."

"That's why I call her the TARDIS," John smiled and stroked the console in a friendly way. When Sherlock's only reaction to that was a puzzled lift of an eyebrow, John sighed, "She's bigger on the inside? Doctor Who?"

"Why are you questioning me about doctors? I thought we were talking about your car."

John raised his eyes to the sky, incredulous, and groaned, "This is going to be a long day, isn't it?"

* * *

Parking the car at the end of the street, John and Sherlock walked briskly to towards the run-down, two-story house belonging to the address Lestrade had texted over. Black and gold Provost-standard panda cars surrounded the building, which was a few dislodged bricks shy of being considered a derelict. Bright yellow 'do not cross' tape blocked off both sides of the house from the alleyways to the opposite side of the street. Uniformed officers milled about inside the enclosed area, mostly keeping the public and the media from bullying their way under the tape.

A reluctant looking officer lifted the tape at Sherlock's approach and had to scramble as a reporter tried to follow as John ducked under behind him. Turning slowly, Sherlock kept his eyes roving the area searching for CCTV cameras and checking the lines of sight from the neighbouring buildings. John glanced around also, checking the lines of sight and finding them very wanting. Most of the people of the block seemed to be gathered a respectful distance from the tape, and there were a few windows open, but otherwise no one seemed particularly inconvenienced by the scene.

They started towards the house when behind them a rough female voice hissed, "What the hell are you doing here, Freak?"

Turning around, Sherlock was unsurprised to come face to face with Lestrade's sharp-nosed sergeant Sally Donovan. She stomped her way over and planted her uniform booted feet directly in his path. He gave her a fake smile, "Ah, Sergeant Donovan, always a pleasure."

"We don't need you here, Freak," she practically snarled, "so clear off like a good little psychopath."

"Unfortunately for you, Sally," Sherlock kept the obviously faux smile on his face just to push her buttons, "I was invited here by Lestrade, your boss, so I am unable to comply with your wish."

Part amused and part curious, John watched the exchange, keeping his eyes on their body language more than the words. The woman's posture was aggressive, but Sherlock's wasn't the same, nor was it particularly defensive. He looked more like he was having fun winding her up. John worried briefly that she might just faint from oxygen deprivation; all the blood in her body seemed to be rushing to her face.

"Aren't you still on bloody house arrest?" A smirk of pure menace overtook her mouth. She waved the small radio in her hand at John. "Or maybe playing up to the reporters?"

Instead of speaking to her, Sherlock turned his attention to the shorter man at his side. John's dark eyes were glancing back and forth between them like a person watching a ping pong match. The doctor gave Sherlock the bulk of his attention though when he realized that the detective was about to speak directly to him, "Dr John Watson may I introduce Lestrade's go-to right hand, Sergeant Sally Donovan? I can't imagine why he bothers of course, she's got a hopeless case of single-mindedness." Sherlock flashed her another fake smile as he began walking towards the door of the building. "Sally, this is my new Guardian, Dr John Watson. Come along, Doctor."

"Sweet Lord above, not another one," Sally grumbled, her shoulders drooping in acceptance as she fell into step behind them. She poked John in the shoulder with the antennae of her radio, "Did he follow you home from the Tube?"

Just short of growling, John slid unobtrusively out of her reach. He narrowed his eyes at the radio in her hand, then at her face. She actually did look a bit worn out and concerned, as if John was some sort of victim. Glancing at Sherlock, he wondered if his charge was this much of an annoying dick to everyone or if it was certain people that brought it further to the forefront.

"No time for chit-chat, Sally," Sherlock hopped up the front steps of the house and took in the rickety state of the porch. "Work to be done."

Sally rolled her eyes and raised her radio to her lips before spitting out, "Freak's here, coming in now."

Once Sherlock stepped inside, John planted himself firmly in Donovan's path, blocking the doorway. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and fixed her with an uncompromising stare that brought her up short. Sherlock stopped as well, turning around when the sound of their footsteps ceased.

John set his back in rigid, military straightness, and the surprised look on Sally's face was priceless. There were certain things he could tolerate – dark humour, friendly ribbing, nicknames – but bullying for the sake of personal dislike was not one of those things. Regardless of whether or not Sherlock was or wasn't (alright _was_) a complete dick, that did not excuse unprofessional, childish behaviour.

Pointing at Sally's radio John stated, in a low voice that carried no further than Sally's and Sherlock's ears, "If I ever hear you refer to him in that way over any line of communication ever again, _Sergeant_, I will have you demoted, if not fired." There was an odd tone laced in with John's words, like the drone of far-off thunder. "As long as you wear that badge and hold a superior rank, I expect you to behave in a professional manner, regardless of personal belief. Are we clear?"

Sally's dark complexion paled considerably, making the saddle of freckles over her nose stand out prominently even in the dying daylight. Sherlock couldn't see John's face, so he couldn't be sure it whether it was John's expression, the words themselves, or the tone of voice the words were delivered in that caused her to blanch. The sergeant nodded and swallowed visibly before turning around and heading back to her station just a few steps from the building's entrance.

Rocking his head back and forth on his neck, John turned around and gave Sherlock one of those perfectly friendly smiles he was capable of making. Sherlock's lips twitched in reciprocation. As one they turned to head up towards the upper floor, only to be brought up short by a man with the name badge proclaiming him 'Head Forensic Analyst Mike Anderson' standing with his hands on his hips before the staircase.

"Step aside, Anderson," Sherlock huffed.

"No," The shrew-faced man stated mulishly. He puffed his chest out as if it would make his skinny frame widen enough to completely block the stairs. "It's my crime scene, not yours, and I refuse to let you contaminate it!"

Taking in a deep breath and quietly letting it out quietly, John let an amused smirk settle on his face. The thin, weasel-faced man had puffed himself up like an angry, territorial bird. John had seen kittens more intimidating.

"The only thing contaminating anything around here is you, Anderson." Sherlock stood to his full height and matched the analyst's pose before stepping into the shorter, thinner man's personal space. Taking in a deep breath, Sherlock smirked and asked, "How long is your wife away for this time?"

Anderson looked a bit taken aback, but he stood up a bit more on his toes to try and see eye to eye with Sherlock as his face scrunched up like he had eaten something very sour, "What are you talking about? Who told you that?"

"No one told me but your deodorant. Quite a masculine scent."

Sniffing, John's nose caught a familiar scent – Axe Instinct. In a corner of his mind, he heard a smoky female voice hiss, 'Eau de Douchebag'. One of the scientists had practically bathed in it, and to make him stop Spydre had enlisted himself and Twitch to help her catch a skunk and release it in the man's government-sanctioned apartment. Actually, he'd smelled it recently also, but where?

"Of course it's masculine! I'm a man!"

"Sergeant Donovan isn't."

Holding back a snort, John focused his gaze on Sherlock for a moment to keep himself from laughing. That was where he'd smelled it! Nothing like a nice scandal among co-workers.

The analyst turned red as a ripe tomato and sputtered before snatching at the lapel of Sherlock's coat and hissing, "I don't like what you're implying, Freak!"

At just the motion of Anderson's hand, John saw red. It was one thing to be offended, and rightly so, but there was never any reason for physical violence. Instead of adding to the tension, John used the easiest weapon in his arsenal to dispel it – sound.

Both Anderson and Sherlock startled and jumped away from each other as a very loud, bestial snarl erupted from somewhere very close to them. Expecting to see a large feline had gotten loose from the zoo and somehow managed to get into the building, both of the them cast a very frightened glance at the short, blond man that inserted himself in the space they had just leapt away from. The sound cut off as John lowered his lips back over his teeth and then ran his tongue along his bottom lip.

Pointing a rigid finger at Anderson, the doctor commanded, "You. Leave. Right now."

Anderson obeyed swiftly, skittering away as if afraid he might be chased down or otherwise attacked if he didn't comply. Sherlock watched the analyst rush off, part of him pleased and part of him thoroughly shocked. It was one thing to know scientifically that John wasn't really all human, and another thing entirely to experience it. He felt himself stand a little straighter as John nodded and then fixed him with a hard glare, his brows lowered belligerently.

In a clipped tone, John snapped, "Crime scene. Upstairs. Go."

Sherlock obeyed, though he tried to keep one eye on the doctor following him up the stairs as they trotted up to the second floor. John hid his amusement as he brought up the rear, catching the glances back at him. It was good to know the same trick he'd learned in the Navy – threading the low timbre of a bass growl into the breaths between his words - was equally useful for corralling recalcitrant forensic analysts, belligerent sergeants, and his fractious charge.

Lestrade was standing on the landing, staring in confusion at the two men coming towards him. As Sherlock darted around him, the bewildered silver-haired Marshal asked, "What the hell was that noise?"

"Suffice it to say," John brought his voice back to it's bedside-manner calm but he wasn't able to keep his tone from being a little short, "your forensic analyst needs to learn to keep his hands to himself and Sherlock needs to learn when to keep his massive trap shut."

"Wait," Lestrade stopped John from walking around him with a hand to the doctor's elbow, "are you telling me that was you?"

Looking down at the second thing to touch him that day, John raised a brow and waited until Lestrade let him go before answering. "Yes. It was me. Sorry about that."

Absolute astonishment took over Lestrade's face, and John took his shock as a chance to slip away towards the room into which his charge had disappeared. That was usually the way it started – being treated differently. At least Lestrade didn't know the whole story behind why John could make that sort of sound.

"You're American," Lestrade said as he caught up with the doctor in the doorway.

Glancing at the Marshal out of the corner of his eye, John answered, "That's what is says on my birth certificate."

"Man, they're really dredging the bottom of the barrel aren't they?" The silver-haired man's lips twitched as he attempted to keep a straight face. He leaned casually against the door frame, watching Sherlock flit around the body on the floor.

Keeping his voice low, John let his accent slip deliberately, "Ain't my fault you guys gotta bus in outside help to keep y'own people in line."

This time, Lestrade couldn't help breaking out into a grin and he indicated John could enter the room before him. Closing the door behind him, Lestrade said wearily, "You've got two minutes, Sherlock. I can't fob Anderson off for any longer than that or he's going to go to the Chief again."

"If you were as smart as I wish you were," Sherlock grumbled from his bent-over position above the body, "you would 'fob' Anderson off the London Bridge and we would all be the happier for it."

Laying in the middle of the room was the body of a woman dressed in a pantsuit of a shocking shade of magenta. There was no sign of violence anywhere, and John's sensitive nose couldn't detect a hint of the coppery tang of blood, or the sharp acrid scent of bleach. All he could smell was the flowery scent of what must have been her perfume – Chanel No.19, Harry's favourite. Her left hand was stretched out above her, and the perfectly manicured nails of it were torn from scratching the letters 'R-A-C-H-E' onto the wooden floor.

A sneer of frustration flashed over Sherlock's face as he straightened up. His mouth twisted in thought before he snapped waspishly, "John! You are a doctor, yes? How did she die?"

Tilting his head in askance at Lestrade, who waved a hand at the body in an affirmative gesture, John sidled over and crouched down on one knee just shy of the body's left shoulder. He checked her fingers, then bent closer to her face a gave a single sniff. Sherlock paced around him, circling the body like a vulture in a greatcoat. Raising his eyes and addressing both men, John stated firmly, "Asphyxiated on her own vomit. I don't smell any alcohol on her, so it was probably a seizure, or a drug maybe."

"Poison," Sherlock sighed, almost shoving John out of the way. "Just like all the others. I was hoping you would be able to pick up something else, perhaps from the killer."

"Sorry," John mumbled as he got his feet back under him.

"The real question," Sherlock glanced down at his datalet screen and pulled up the weather report as he spoke to himself, "is who 'Rachel' is."

"What?" Lestrade asked from the doorway. "What do you mean 'Rachel'?"

"That's what she was carving into the floor. It's not her killer's name, that's obvious, or he would have stopped her from doing it." Sherlock paused and looked over his shoulder at the Marshal. "Why? What did you think it meant?"

"Anderson said _rache_ is German for revenge?"

Not many people could pull off sneering and groaning at the same time, but Sherlock managed it remarkably well. "Do us all a favor, Lestrade, and fire that imbecile?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes dramatically, "Yes, yes, Sherlock. We've got it, thanks. You don't get along with Anderson." He pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand. "Just tell me what you've got so we can move on, please?"

To further express his displeasure, Sherlock spoke as quickly as he could, "Your victim is a serial adulteress recently arrived from Cardiff. She was probably only staying one night judging by the size of her suitcase. Sometime after her arrival at the train station but before her check-in at her hotel she met with our killer and thus her demise."

"Hold on, serial what? Suitcase?"

"Serial adulteress," John answered, proving once again that he could follow Sherlock's rapid fire speech. "I'm just as confused as you are about the suitcase."

"It's written all over her!" Sherlock flailed his hands over the body in consternation. "Her jewellery is all perfectly clean except her wedding ring. Scuffed up on the outside but polished on the inside. The only cleaning it gets happens when she pulls it off her finger. Look at her nails and the skin of her hands; no manual labour for this woman. So who does she remove her ring for? Has to be a string of lovers otherwise she would never be able to keep up the fiction of her status as a single woman."

"Amazing," John said softly.

Sherlock paused to glance at him, taking note that the doctor was staring in wonder back and forth between the body and himself. Then the consultant continued, "In regards to the suitcase, it would have to be a small one. She colour-coordinates her entire being not just her clothes and shoes; her nails, her lipstick, the clip in her hair, it's all the same colour. Someone this conscious of their appearance? Definitely nothing bigger than an overnight bag. Also, there's the splashes of mud on the calf of her left leg. Small droplets, small spread, and therefore a small wheeled suitcase."

"Fantastic," murmured John.

Turning to his Guardian, Sherlock asked softly, "Did you you're saying that aloud?"

Watson blushed. "Sorry."

"No," Sherlock swallowed awkwardly. "It's fine."

"Didn't find a suitcase," Lestrade said confusedly, glancing between them both. "Also, how did you guess about Cardiff?"

"I didn't guess," Sherlock hissed. "I saw! Her coat is wet beneath the collar but the parasol in her pocket is bone dry and her hair is damp and messed from the wind. She's been in a place with rain and strong gusts, and the only place that has had both of those before her time of death was Cardiff." He shoved his datalet screen with the corresponding weather report nearly into Lestrade's face before a thought caught up to him, "What do you mean you didn't find a suitcase?"

"I mean there's no case. Just her." Lestrade looked genuinely confused.

"Did you find her datalet?" Sherlock barely let Lestrade shake his head once in the negative before snapping, "Then it's in her case!"

"There's no case," Lestrade spoke with the deliberate slowness of a father who had spent many nights trying to explain something to a child that refused to believe a fact put right in front of their face.

Incredulous, Sherlock wondered how it could be that even Anderson missed finding a bright pink suitcase. He went over the thought again, slowly, while looking down at the woman still splayed out on the floor. His mouth formed a round 'O' of comprehension as he realized that it was impossible to miss a bright pink suitcase, so it must still have been in the killer's vehicle. This thought led to another, being that if he found the suitcase and there was no datalet in it, then the word 'Rachel' would make more sense.

Without speaking again, Sherlock turned on his heel and sprinted out the door. Lestrade and John both shared a look of exasperation mixed with shock and ran out to the staircase landing. The consultant was already gliding determinedly down the steps.

Grumbling beneath his breath, John turned to Lestrade and asked, "How high up are we?"

Lestrade contemplated the distance from the landing to the floor with a glance and a shrug. "Twenty feet?"

"Broken ankles at the worst then." Without further ado, John hopped the banister and dropped straight down to the ground floor. Lestrade was so shocked, he didn't even reach out to stop him.

Sherlock stopped dead in the middle of the staircase as John's falling body landed feet-first on the floor. The Guardian squatted down from the impact, and his hands slapped loudly against the floor as his momentum ceased. Feral slate eyes bored into Sherlock's ever-changing green-blue ones as the doctor rose back to a standing position.

Warily the detective stepped down onto the main floor, watching as John tested each of his arm and leg joints for damage with tiny shaking movements. In the end, John nodded in satisfaction and rocked his head from side to side on his neck, the bones of his spine popping quietly. Watson's eyes never left those of his charge, even as he strode over to stand toe-to-toe with his charge.

John was livid; the strong muscle of his jaw twitched as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. He poked Sherlock in the chest and spoke in a low hiss, "Whether you take your safety seriously or not is up to you, but it's unfortunately in my job description to follow yo' skinny ass around." John's accent slipped further the more intently he spoke. "If that means I gotta fall twenty feet every time you take off afta a genius epiphany, then so be it. Howevah, my ankles'd appreciate it if you would at least have the courtesy of telling me to follow you 'stead of skipping awff."

Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock thought it would break some of the tension to smile down at the smaller man before him and ask, "Did you know your accent is showing?"

He realised it was very much the wrong move half a second later when John growled. This was not the noise of frustration that Lestrade often aimed in his direction or the the angry sound of Donovan forcing herself not to punch him in the face. If he hadn't been looking right into the cobalt-steel eyes of a man, Sherlock would have sworn an angry jaguar was staring him down. Watson had even bared his teeth. The sharp canines glistening in the light of the foyer reminded Sherlock once again that as human as the man looked, his Guardian was still part beast.

John reeled himself in at the same moment that Sherlock took a full step back from him and glanced around for an exit. There was a real flash of fear in Holmes' eyes. He took his own step back out of Sherlock's space and took a deep, steadying breath through his nose before letting it out slowly through his mouth.

When he locked eyes with Sherlock again, his voice was smooth and even, "Look, I get it. Having a tag-a-long is annoying. Well, tough shit. I'm not getting fired because you can't be bothered to share with the class. I'm assuming you read my file, so let me make something very clear." John stepped very close, and the feral sincerity in his eyes sank into Sherlock's bones. "If you ever disappear on me, I will hunt you down like a rabid dog, and when I find you, and that's _when_ not _if_, I will break both your ankles. Bone. By. Bone."

Sherlock swallowed and, in a voice half-shock and half-awe, answered very seriously, "Understood."

With that one word, John stepped back and was again just a short blond man in a donkey jacket and fatigues. Sherlock blinked at the suddenness of the change. Licking his lips, John gestured to the house door and said benignly, "Lead on then."

Since the age of twelve, Sherlock Holmes had never smiled a smile as genuine as the one that blossomed on his face at that moment. How could such an ordinary seeming man be so contradictory? Was it just the oddness of his genetic make-up? It was going to be thrilling taking the man apart piece by piece.

Breezing passed his Guardian and out the door, he turned the opposite direction on the street from where John's car sat parked near the street corner. Finding further speech unnecessary, and with John trailing close behind he darted down a side street and delved into the pile of garbage beside a large, blue bin. Behind him, John asked, "What the hell are you doing?"

Lifting the lid of the bin, Sherlock grunted out, "Judging by her time of death, which was only a few hours ago, and considering the arrival time of the last train into London, our victim wouldn't have had time to stop at a hotel. Her case, which would be the same alarming shade of pink she was wearing, would have been left in the killer's possession. Our killer is a man, and even in these times of relative social complacency, he would have looked out of place toting around a bright pink suitcase." He grunted and slammed the lid shut. "Not here. Let's try another street."

Rolling his eyes, John kept pace with Sherlock as he lead them down another side street. Trotting along the line of bags and bins, John kept his nose focused on searching for the faint smell of the dead woman's perfume. Coming back to the end of the street where Sherlock was half hanging out of a bin he asked, "We're definitely sure he ditched it nearby?"

"Wouldn't you?" Sherlock wasn't looking at Watson, but he could hear the man huff a laugh at that remark. "When we find it, we can check inside and see if her datalet is still there. If it's isn't, it's quite possible our murderer has slipped up egregiously. It's not here either. Let's try the next."

It took them two more streets before the smell poked John in the nose, just as they turned around seeing the huge skiff parked at the end of the street. "Wait," he called out, cocking his head and darting deftly up the side of the huge red bin. Just below the lip of the skiff lay the suitcase, a bright spot of bubblegum pink among the dark plastic bags.

Sherlock raised a brow at him and John smirked. He fished around for a moment, just for dramatic effect really, then yanked out a bright pink suitcase. The detective actually clapped, as if he'd just been presented with the greatest birthday present he'd ever received.

"How did you know?" Sherlock asked, turning the slightly dirty case over in his hands.

"Chanel number nineteen."

"What?"

"Her perfume," John clarified as he gave Sherlock a push in the arm to start him walking back in the direction of the car. "It's Harry's favourite. I could smell it in the room with the victim. It's also on her suitcase. You get to carry that back to the crime scene, by the way, since you wanted it so much."

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock flashed him a toothy grin. "We're going back to the flat. Do keep up."

"I draw the line at running off with evidence, Sherlock. Seriously."

Snorting, Sherlock riposted, "We're not 'running off' with it, we're taking it to a secure location wherein I can study it and collect further evidence from it in a controlled environment."

"You know where else is a secure location?" John parried. "The crime scene. You know, that place where the Provosts and their crime scene technicians have the area roped off?"

"One thing you're forgetting, John, is that the head of those forensic technicians is one Mike Anderson, whose brain I am fairly sure shares several characteristics, including size, with a lizard?"

"Watch it you," John cuffed him on the shoulder. "I resemble that remark."

"Your brain is the same size as a lizard's?"

"Don't make me hurt you."


	6. A Game

_AN: Not dead. I am so very very sorry, my dear readers. I have been completely bogged down with a lot of personal stuff, and writers block, and horrible goings on at my workplace. Unfortunately, that means I have neglected you. As a peace offering, I will be posting 2 full new chapters of the re-write tonight, and hopefully another two in the next two weeks. I'm trying to get back onto some kind of schedule because I hate disappointing you guys. Again, I am so very sorry this has taken me so long and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you sticking with me. Thank you so much for reading, and commenting, and everything. I love you all._

_Disclaimer: __I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of its characters. I bow before the talented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat for the privilege of borrowing their characters for a bit of fun. Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing them with the world._

**Chapter 6: A Game**

"_Are you sure you want to play this game?" - Professor James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows_

"Just to reiterate," John grumbled as he parked the car in front of 221B Baker Street, "I don't approve of absconding with evidence."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and unbuckled his safety belt, "Once again, I shall repeat that we are not 'absconding'. We are simply delaying the time in which the evidence will be mauled by incompetents." He hopped out onto the curb, clutching his prize to his chest. "Also, just for your information, I loathe repetition."

"What was that?" John asked as he trotted around the boot of the car, heading for the door of the building.

"I said I loathe," Sherlock caught the grin that spread over his Guardian's face as the man walked passed him. "You aren't funny."

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm hilarious." Flashing that boyish grin, John opened the front door and held it open so Sherlock could carry the bright pink suitcase into the house. "By the way, fair warning, if we get arrested or whatever I plan on shanking you in the prison yard."

"First of all, I'm not entirely sure what the latter half of that sentence meant." The detective lowered his brow in confusion before he smiled sharkishly, "Second of all, you assume that Mycroft would ever allow me to go to prison."

As they mounted the seventeen steps up into the flat, Sherlock felt oddly content. His previous Guardians usually radioed into the main Provost communication channel or contacted Lestrade directly, and his new-found evidence would be swept away in moments. Despite all of John's mutterings to the contrary though, he still was complying with Sherlock's wishes. Granted, they had argued about if for almost the entire walk back to the car and the entire ride back to the flat, but it was still nice to get what he wanted.

Tipping over one of the tables in the living room, Sherlock let everything on it fall to the floor – it was a lot easier than simply clearing a spot. Behind him, John sighed in protest but didn't bother verbally admonishing the action, turning instead to hang his coat up behind the door. With a flourish, Sherlock flipped open the lid of the case and delved into the contents.

"Make-up bag, clothes, feminine products," the consultant mumbled to himself as he removed the items inside and placed them in neat rows on the table. When everything was out of the case, he looked up to where his Guardian now sat and beamed. "No datalet."

Chin resting in his left hand, John was leaning his left elbow on the arm of the plaid chair nearest the kitchen. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's enthusiasm but otherwise did not speak. Ignoring the silence, Sherlock tossed his own coat over the back of his leather armchair and then perched in it, feet on the seat cushion, like a suited crow.

"Give me your datalet," the consultant held out a hand imperiously.

"What's wrong with yours?" John asked, not complying.

"My text ID number is on my website. Someone could recognise it." Sherlock clasped his hands together beneath his chin, resting his elbows on his knees.

They sat in silence for about two minutes before John sighed and lifted his datalet out of his lap and handed it over. Beaming, Sherlock tapped out a series of numbers onto the screen, then passed it back to the doctor. "John, send these words exactly: What happened last night? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street, please come."

Infuriatingly slowly, John tapped out the letters. "You said 'Northumberland' right?"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. "Hurry up. Have you sent it yet?"

"Keep your pants on," John grumbled. "Okay, I sent it." He paused, then glanced over the edge of his screen with a puzzled frown. "Why did I send it?"

"It wasn't in her coat pocket, and it wasn't in her suitcase. A woman like her, keeping a string of lovers and, judging by her choice of dress she occupied a very visible position, something public like a reporter or a television personality? She would never let something as valuable to her life as her datalet out of her sight. So, where is it?"

Silent, John glanced unsteadily between his datalet and Sherlock's face. A new call re-lit the screen and the words 'unknown number' flashed in the caller ID window. Letting out a gusty, irate sigh the doctor fixed a glare on his charge, "Did you just have me text a murderer?"

"A normal person, someone who just found something as glaringly personalized as a pink datalet, would ignore a text like that. But what," Sherlock's mouth twisted in a wicked smirk, "about her killer? A message like that, which could only have come from her? The killer, he would panic!" The detective hopped up off his chair like a jack-in-the-box, rushing into his coat and out the door.

Behind him, John rolled his eyes with a groan and gave chase, rumbling almost two steps behind as Sherlock darted down the stairs. Sherlock only paused out on the pavement, practically vibrating with impatience as the doctor locked up the front door behind them. Instead of trying to hop in the car, Sherlock turned down the street, moving with swift strides of his long legs.

"Aren't we going to take the car?" John asked as moved to a brisk walk to keep up.

"Please, Northumberland Street is barely a five minute walk from here." Practically glowing, Sherlock flashed a grin to the man beside him. "Oh, I love all the smart ones. Always so eager, so sure. It's their downfall – they always slip up."

"The smart ones slip up?"  
"Of course. Smart killers always want an audience, want to be noticed. Genius thrives on attention."  
John snorted and murmured, "That explains a lot."

A grin slipped over Sherlock's lips as they crossed the street. He glanced sidelong at the doctor beside him and stated, "There's a nice little Italian place across the street from number twenty-two. We can have a bit of dinner whilst we wait for our killer to make an appearance."

"Did you actually just say the word 'whilst'?"

Chuckling, Sherlock led John passed four store fronts before coming to the door of a comfortable looking restaurant. Once inside, the consultant immediately slid into a chair at the corner table beside the half-frosted front window. A half-second later, John settled uncomfortably into the chair opposite his charge, with his back to the front door. Sherlock kept his eyes on the street, watching John's reflection in the window out of the corner of his eye as a waiter dropped off a pair of menus.

"Is it where we're sitting, that I sat down without the host bringing me to a table, or that we have yet to tell Lestrade about the suitcase?"

John hummed questioningly, his eyebrows twitching upwards as he looked up from the menu in his hand. Placing the single sheet back down on the table, he rubbed a finger along the tense muscle behind his right ear. He opened his mouth once, closed it, and instead of speaking again he made a rumbling sound in his throat that sounded questioning.

"I was alluding to your nervousness and trying to ascertain its cause." Sherlock laced his fingers under his chin. At the slow blink of stony denial that fell over John's face, he rattled off, "Your eyes keep shifting and your neck keeps tensing, as if you want to keep looking the place over, and I can see your ears twitching at every sound. You hesitated after I sat down without waiting for Billy to bring me to a seat, and then you sat down as if you were expecting the chair to come to life beneath you. You've squared your shoulders since you sat down, and the muscle in your jaw is ticking beneath your cheek as you grind your teeth." Tilting his head to one side, Sherlock spread his hands out with a flourish, like a magician awaiting an applause after performing a particularly challenging illusion.

The corner of John's mouth twitched up, "I can't decide if I should applaud or slug you."

Sherlock frowned, "I'm sorry, what do mucus-covered invertebrates have to do with anything?"

"What?" John looked genuinely puzzled. He then smiled as his brows lifted when he understood their misunderstanding. "Sorry. I meant when you do that, that thing you do where you see everything, I can't decide if I should clap or hit you."

"You wish to hit me," Sherlock tried to clarify, speaking slowly, "with mucous-covered invertebrates?"

"Nevermind," John rolled his eyes. "To answer your question it's mostly having my back to the door. You do remember that I recently returned from war, right?"

Looking down at the table, duly chastised, Sherlock opened his mouth to answer. He was cut off as a jovial voice proclaimed, "Sherlock!"

Both men looked up to see an older Italian man with silver hair, dressed all in black with a plain black apron around his waist, approaching their table. He threw an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and gave the detective a friendly shake. As Sherlock smiled blandly, he saw John tense completely, all his Guardian's attention focused on the touch. Inwardly, Sherlock grinned – no doubt in his mind that should he show any inclination that the embrace was unwanted, or if it were to turn violent, John would retaliate swiftly.

"John, this Angelo. He owns this restaurant."

Angelo placed his other hand over his heart and gave Sherlock another little shake. "This man here, he save my life!" He stood aside, releasing Sherlock's shoulders, and clasped his hands in front of his chest, "Anything you want, I make it for you myself. É gratuito!"

One of John's ash-blond eyebrows rose. He glanced questioningly at his charge. Sherlock smiled wryly and said, "He said 'it's free'."

"I know what 'É gratuito' means." John's pronunciation was more than passable, much to Sherlock's surprise. "I was wondering more about the life-saving part."

Angelo braced his strong arms on the table, leaning down. He pointed to Sherlock's chest and said, low and with feeling, "He proved my innocence."

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock snapped in admonishment "I proved you were a burglar." He turned his eyes to John's curious face. "Angelo was once accused of committing a rather vicious triple murder. I managed to gather evidence which proved he was actually in a different part of town house breaking at the time the victims had been killed."

"If it were not for this incredible man," Angelo wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders again, causing John's lips to twitch at the corners as he fought off an amused smile, "I would have gone to prison."

"Angelo," Sherlock gripped the bridge of his nose as he stated wearily, "you __did __go to prison."

The restauranteur paused for a moment, completely silent, then clapped and stated, "I will bring you a candle for the table. Much more romantic for your date!"

John looked slightly alarmed, then hissed at Angelo's retreating back, "I'm not his date!"

Hiding a smirk behind his water glass, Sherlock flicked the corner of John's menu. "You might as well eat something since we don't know how long we'll be here.  
Dutifully, John picked the menu back up and stared at it, a low growl rumbling in his throat. He looked up when Angelo returned with a candle, and rolled his eyes. Laughing inwardly, Sherlock turned his eyes back to the world outside the window. Billy the waiter returned and accepted John's quiet order for ravioli before glancing at Sherlock and just taking the menus and moving along. John sighed quietly, staring into the candle flame.

"This happen to you a lot?" John asked calmly.

"Waiting for a murderer to slip up and fall into my trap? No, not often."

"I meant the candle, Poirot." John leaned forward in his seat, and Sherlock could see him sweep a calculating gaze over the interior of the restaurant. "Wouldn't want to cramp your style or whatever. Is there a girlfriend or something you cart out to dinner here?"

Confused, Sherlock took his eyes briefly off the street to glance at his table companion. There was nothing but curiosity in John's countenance. A bit shocked at the social, friendly question, Sherlock answered quietly, "No. Not really my area."

"Boyfriend then?"

Unused to the sincere questioning, Sherlock was at a loss at how to answer. He was used to people asking him questions in order to discover and exploit his weaknesses. Genuine interest was etched in the lines of John's face. Was it some attempt at camaraderie? Was he just a very good liar? Was he flirting?

Uncomfortable and trying not to show it, Sherlock licked his lips and stared down at the candle on the table. Quietly he stated, "Your interest is flattering but I consider myself married to my work."

Leaning back with a look of shock on his face, John said, "I wasn't coming on to you. I was just, you know, wondering about your daily life." His brows contracted in concern. "I'm supposed to be your personal body guard, and a live-in one at that. I just was wondering if there was going to be some tension because you had a steady partner coming around." He shrugged. "I didn't want to get in the way."

"Oh." Sherlock blinked. He hadn't thought about that at all. "I do not indulge in personal relationships of that calibre. They would be detrimental to the work."

"Okay," John shrugged again and turned his attention back to the people walking by on the street.

Sherlock watched him for a few moments, amazed and unable to comprehend John's complete nonchalance. He wasn't sure if he should be angry, concerned, content, or depressed that that was the end of the conversation. A flash of street light off the onyx edge of a cab roof caught his eye, and he watched it park beside the address across the street. The black London taxi switched off it's fare light and just sat there.

The light of Sherlock's intellect flickered on with a vengeance. All the victims had been found in places they weren't supposed to be, in parts of the city no one would expect them to be. They had been abducted off the streets, but no one had seen them disappear. There were no calls to the emergency services about a person in distress being taken somewhere against their will.

"Oh, now, that is elegant," Sherlock breathed. Across from him, John hummed inquisitively. Smiling wickedly, the consultant said, "I give you the perfect abductor – the London Cab."

John's brow contracted as he stared hard across the street at the cab. As he watched the idling cab move to the alley across the way and just sit there. Two people who tried to hop in were turned away. He said softly, "Sherlock, I'm not following you. He's probably just eating his dinner."

Sighing, Sherlock snapped, "Who do we trust implicitly to get us where we're going? Who's vehicles do we enter, without thinking, when we are drunk or lost or in a rush? They pass through the streets like spectres, innocuous and invisible, until they are needed."

Comprehension dawned on John's face as Sherlock's words washed over him. He turned back to the window, staring at the idling taxi. Sherlock could see, in the reflection of the window, that John's pupils were expanding as he focused his powerful sight across the street. Another young woman walked up to the driver's side of the car and they held their breath until she was turned away.

"Angelo!" The consultant shouted suddenly. "A glass of white, please!"

As if summoned by magic, Angelo appeared with a glass of white wine and handed it over to Sherlock. Both the restaurateur and John watched, speechless, as Sherlock splashed the wine over his face, stood up, and artfully skewed his coat, scarf, and shirt. He then tousled his hair a bit and clapped Angelo on the shoulders.

"The headless nun again, if you please?" Sherlock asked.

"Now that was a case," Angelo nodded happily, pushing up his shirtsleeves over his elbows. Grabbing Sherlock by his coat lapels, the portly Italian started to push and shove him towards the door. "Out of my restaurant, you stupid, filthy drunk! Vai!"

John stared, flabbergasted, as Angelo tossed Sherlock out the front door and into the street. He rose to his feet to follow, only to be held back by Angelo's meaty arm barring the doorway. As Sherlock meandered and stumbled across the street, John grabbed hold of the Italian's arm, pulled it up behind the restaurant owner's back, and shoved him into the door jamb.

"What the hell is he doing?" The Guardian hissed into Angelo's ear.

"Per finge!" Angelo stuttered fearfully. "It's pretend! Don't worry! Sherlock has a plan, you will see!"

A growl rumbled deep in John's throat, causing Angelo to shake. Turning to glare out the window, John watched Sherlock fumble his way through traffic and begin knocking on the window of the cab. Cursing under his breath, John released Angelo from his grip and slipped out the door.

As John stalked up the block, focusing his eyes and ears on what was going on near the suspiciously parked cab, Sherlock rattled out the beginning of 'Shave and a Haircut' on its driver side window. He swayed dangerously and drawled out, in a passable Yorkshire accent, "C'mon mate. Two-two-one-bee Buh-baker street."

The cab driver rolled down his window and huffed angrily, "Piss off, mate, can't choo see the light?"

"Aow, c'mon, s'just 'round the corner!" Sherlock leaned halfway into the cab. "Help a bloke out, aye?"

"I said piss off! Not takin' fares now!"

Lolling his whole body to the left, Sherlock propped himself against the rear driver side door and pulled his datalet out of his pocket. Hitting a few keys, he dialled out the number for the murder victim and let it ring. There was no sound of a ringtone from inside the cab, and when he turned his head back around there was no sign of a glowing screen inside the vehicle anywhere. Shaking his head in anger, Sherlock stalked away from the car and headed back towards the restaurant.

In the middle of the pelican crossing, he nearly ran into a stone-faced John Watson, who snagged him by the elbow and began steering him homeward. Sherlock felt very awkward as John lead him away like a small child. He flashed back to a time when he was eight years old on the family estate, when the butler was marching him home after he had fallen into the fish pond trying to get a sample of pond scum. This night probably wasn't going to end with him getting scolded by his mother after being hosed off though.

"Well, at least we know he wasn't the cabby we were looking for," Sherlock offered softly.

John stopped moving, causing his charge to stumble to a halt. When their eyes locked together John spat out, in a clipped voice, "What. The. Fuck. Is wrong with you?"

"I was," the consultant was cut off by John's hand slicing sharply through the air.

"You know what? Not here." John tightened his grip on Sherlock's elbow and started moving forward again. "We're going back to the flat, and then you are going to tell me just what the hell was going through your stupid head."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but something about the way John's jaw squared mulishly quieted any protest he might have given. A petulant pout twisted his mouth and the consultant shoved his hands into his coat pockets as they trudged along. John kept completely silent for the rest of the walk.

Once safely back inside the front door of the flat, John and Sherlock hung up their coats, and the Guardian planted himself in front of the staircase up to their living room. Sherlock started to head around him, but stopped when John propped his hands on his hips and refused to be moved. He was so close to John he could almost hear the doctor's teeth grinding. Something in the air stretched taut, and the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck stood on end.

"Now," John's voice was down to as low an octave as he could manage and a growl threaded through the sound. "Explain to me just what in the Sam Hill could have been goin' through yo' fuckin' head to make you hand y'self over to a possible murderer?"

Brow furrowing, Sherlock had to focus on the words to continue understanding through John's accent slippage. He pointed out, "I didn't hand myself over to him as he wasn't the murderer. He didn't have her datalet. What is a 'Sam Hill' by the way?"

"It's an expression," John snarled, his teeth gritting as he tried to keep control over his accent. "What if he had been the murderer and you'd gotten into his car? Hmmm? I'm fast, but I can't keep up with a damn car, not even a slow ass London cab. Seriously! What the hell were you thinking!?"

"I was thinking I'd caught the murderer. It seems I hadn't. What kind of expression?"

"Forget about the frickin' expression! Why would," John's rant was cut off as Mrs Hudson slowly entered the hall from her room, wringing her hands.

"Oh Sherlock," she asked sadly, "what have you done?"

Puzzled, both the consultant and his Guardian asked at the same moment, "What's the matter, Mrs Hudson?"

All three of the occupants of the foyer shared a shocked look at each other from the synchronized speech. Mrs Hudson regained herself first and stated, "The police are upstairs in your flat!"

John and Sherlock shared a quick look of confusion before darting up the stairs and into the flat. In the middle of their living room Provost Marshal Lestrade was reading something on his datalet, leaning back in Sherlock's preferred armchair. Several provosts walked back and forth through and around the room, looking beneath cushions and poking around books.

Sergeant Donovan leaned out around the kitchen doorway and, in a voice equal parts incredulous and disgusted, said, "Sir, there's a bowl of eyeballs in the microwave!"

"It's an experiment! Put those back!" Sherlock shouted. "What the devil is going on in here, Lestrade?"

The Marshal nonchalantly let his datalet swing down in his hand so he could take in the confounded look on Sherlock's face. "Well, technically it's a drugs bust."

"I am clean!" Sherlock bellowed, which caused the rest of the people to stop moving and look to Lestrade.

In the ensuing quiet Anderson's slightly horrified voice drifted out from the kitchen, "Why's there a pan of rat heads in the oven?"

"Keep looking everyone," the Marshal ordered calmly, turning back to his datalet screen. "Who knows what we're going to find in here. Perhaps some 'misplaced' evidence?"

Sherlock turned pale with rage as he stalked over to stand in front of the Marshal. "You cannot just barge in here and start going through my personal belongings without my consent!"

"And you," Lestrade dragged himself to his feet, "can't withhold evidence! It's an active murder investigation, Sherlock, for God's sake! I have a job to do, and you making off with potentially pertinent pieces of evidence is only going to make everything that much harder!"

"You have two seconds to explain, Lestrade, or I'm going to have Watson throw every last one of you out of here!"  
"Actually," both men turned to see the aforementioned Guardian leaning casually against the wall between the front door of the flat and the kitchen, "I'm more interested in the answer to the 'rat heads in the oven' question. Although, an explanation as to why you think this guy," he indicated Sherlock with a point of his thumb, "is a druggie would also be welcome."  
Taking a large step to bring himself back in front of John, Sherlock hissed, "Not now, John!"

The Guardian's eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in disbelief, "No. Seriously. You?"  
"Shut up!" Sherlock huffed.

"Look," Lestrade groaned, "Sherlock we're on the same side here, so can we just work together?"

Reeling back around, Sherlock practically thrust his face into the Marshal's, "Fine! Get your filthy idiot minions out of my flat and we can talk."

"That's more like it." Lestrade's voice was friendly, but a bit tired. "Wrap it up, people! Get a move on! Anderson, don't forget to take that suitcase?"

"He'd forget his own head if," Sherlock snapped his mouth shut as John's hand closed around his elbow and drew him towards the sofa. He opened his mouth to argue again when John gave him the same sort of 'that's enough out of you, young man' glare that his grandmother used to fix on him. Apparently, the look was just as effective on the face of a short army doctor as it was on that of a severe old woman. Like a surly teenager, Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to speak further until the other Provosts had vacated the room.

Lestrade smiled tiredly at the sight. Who knew it only took a proper glare to silence the obstinately verbose consultant? Instead of remarking on it, lest he break the spell of John's influence, he ventured, "We found out who Rachel is." He only continued when Sherlock looked him in the eye, "She's the daughter of one, Jennifer Wilson, our victim. Aborted four years ago due to complications with the pregnancy."

"Why would she carve her dead daughter's name into the floor while she was dying?" Sherlock asked, looking genuinely confused.

"Guilt, maybe?" John ventured.

Sherlock looked up at him, "It was four years ago, why would she still be upset?" He waited for an answer, but all he got was Lestrade giving him a look part disgust and part shock, and John furrowing his brow in concern. Furrowing his brow slightly, he glanced up at John and asked, "Not good?"

"Bit, yeah," was the Guardian's answer, spoken in a tone that suggested it was very much not good.

"But she was clever!" Holmes popped up off the sofa and began pacing the length of the room between the other two men. "Running all those lovers, she had to be! Why would she carve her dead child's name as her last act on Earth? It took a lot of effort; it would have hurt. Instead of conserving her energy to call for help, she used her fingers to carve each letter into the wooden floor." He looked puzzled. Rounding on John, he asked suddenly, "If you were being murdered, what would you say?"

"Please, God, let me live," John answered without hesitation, his tone solemn.

Sherlock sneered, "Oh please, use your imagination!"

Almost imperceptibly, John's left shoulder rotated back as he set his jaw and answered quietly and matter-of-factly, "Don't have to."

Silence fell as Sherlock looked into the dark slate eyes of his Guardian, seeing the truth there as '_Honourably discharged due to injury_' scrolled through his mind in damning Sans Serif font. Stung by his own callousness, Sherlock covered an embarrassed flush by turning his back to both men and striding to the hearth. "It doesn't make any sense. She was being murdered, she would have wanted her last act to help catch her killer, she didn't have her datalet so she scratched...Oh!"

Both Lestrade and John traded startled looks as Sherlock bounced excitedly and whipped the datalet right out of Lestrade's hand. Typing furiously, Sherlock pulled up a log-in screen and map, feeding the victim's contact information into the GPS locating site. John and Lestrade peered over each of the consultant's shoulders as a tiny dot blinked to life.

"Rachel's her password," John breathed. Lestrade swore softly in realisation.

"There's your murderer, Lestrade." Sherlock said smugly, handing the screen back to its owner. "She didn't lose her datalet, she left it behind. She was leading us to her killer after all."

"Bloody hell," Lestrade grinned wildly, "it says the bastard's just around the corner!" The Marshal took off down the stairs, barking orders for his team to start searching.

"John, please go down and warn Lestrade he's looking for a cab?" Sherlock asked, oddly polite.

With a suspicious look, John nodded and obeyed the request, slipping back down the stairs much more quietly than the Marshal had. Sherlock waited until the front door slammed shut before walking out onto the landing and leaning against the banister. A full minute later the door opened again. A much older man in a brown cap entered the foyer, closing and locking the door behind him before looking up.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes."

* * *

Halfway down the block, something at the back of John's mind tugged at his attention. He couldn't hear or smell Sherlock anywhere in the vicinity – not with the officers bolting down the alleys trying to cut off their quarry, not with Lestrade and his two back-up officers as they raced straight down the street, and not charging along at John's heels as he followed. It's wrong, his gut warned him, that Sherlock isn't there like a bloodhound on a scent.

They find the datalet sitting on the driver's seat of an unattended black cab, and John knows they've been had. Biting back a snarl, John grabbed Lestrade by the arm and spat, "He's at the flat. Sherlock tricked us and so did the bastard cabbie."

Lestrade's steel brows crashed together almost audibly as John's words sank in. Shouting orders for half the provosts to remain with the vehicle, he ordered Anderson to call a forensic team and a tow truck. He ordered the rest waspishly to return to the consultant's flat, taking off at a run. Glancing to the side, he noticed John keeping pace, fury etched in his stony face.

"What the hell is that bloody fool thinking?" Lestrade gasped out between strides.

"The cabbie," John grumbled, "or Holmes?"

"Both," the Marshal pressed a hand to the stitch blossoming in his side.

"I don't really give a flying fuck what they're thinking." John snarled, his face sour. "I'll tell you one thing though, you might want to call an ambulance."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'm gonna beat the shit outta both of 'em when we get there."

Gasping out a laugh as they rounded the last corner, making a bee-line for the panda cars Sergeant Donovan was still watching over, Lestrade skidded to a stop. "Donovan, did you see anyone go into the flat?"

"No, Sir," Sally stated, her head leaning to the side as the radio at her shoulder hissed with static and the request for a tow truck. "Landlady came out and we chatted a bit before she headed down the block to the Chinese place for dinner." She looked a bit sheepish. "I suppose someone might have slipped in while I wasn't looking?"

Turning to the door, Lestrade watched John test the knob and curse under his breath when it wouldn't open. He heard the smaller man letting out a rumbling growl while walking back into the street, probably trying to get a look inside the upstairs windows. Whipping his datalet up, Lestrade pulled up his most frequently used number and activated his hands-free earpiece with a tap of his finger.

"Defense Home Office," a smooth, mellow voice greeted, "How may I direct your call?"

"Provost Marshal Greg Lestrade for Mr Mycroft Holmes, please. It concerns his brother. Rolling his eyes at the classical hold music that sounded promptly in his ear, Lestrade turned his eyes back to Dr Watson, who was staring in rapt concentration between Sherlock's flat and the building across the street.

* * *

Mr Jefferson Hope was a frankly forgettable man, even to someone as observant as Sherlock Holmes. Less than average height, he was dressed in all mouse colours – grey hat, brown hooded tweed jacket, brown corduroy trousers – that would have faded into the upholstery of his cab perfectly. His sloe-dark eyes seemed to stare unblinkingly out from beneath his bushy grey brows. He looked like a gecko in a cloth cap as he plopped himself into one of the chairs by the hearth.

"You do realize that they will return the moment they realize you tricked them?" Sherlock sank gracefully into his own armchair, crossing his long legs at the knee and lacing his fingers together over his stomach.

Mr Hope smiled softly, "Of course. I won't even bother running. Wouldn't be much point by then, would there?"

"So," Sherlock tilted his head a bit to one side, "why come here?"

"Curiosity." Hope shrugged, crossing his own legs as he sank back in his seat. When this answer received no more than a twitch of the consultant's brow he offered, "I didn't realise anyone was on to me, y'see, 'til I got that message on the datalet. 'S in a pink case, did joo know that? I turnt the volume down an' hid it in me glove box after I read it. I knew it wasn't 'er by the way. Made sure she was dead afore I left. I decided to go along anyways to see who was following me."

Sherlock had to bite his tongue in order to keep himself from correcting the man's horrible grammar. "Did you know who I was?"

"Oh yeah," Hope replied blithely. "The Great Sherlock Holmes, eh? Big fan of yours, I am. Follow your website and everything. Fan of yours showed me what you look like, so when I realised it was you what was trying to get into my cab, I knew I was caught."

"Why did you not turn yourself over to myself or the Provosts immediately then?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Hope uncrossed his legs and leaned over to drag the small pedestal table beside it between them. "I thought to myself, 'Oi, Jeff, where's the fun in just handing y'self over to the Provvies?' I mean, how many times is a man like me going to get to show off like this?" From the pockets of his coat he produced two identical bottles, each with a single pill inside, and placed them on the table. "I thought why get in one more before they take you in? I always wondered if I could beat a proper genius like Sherlock Holmes. Here's my chance."

Sherlock's mind whirred as he stared between the pills and his unwelcome guest. A solution presented itself and he felt the line of concentration in his forehead smooth out as his mouth twitched in one corner. "Ingenious. A little game of chance."

Hope pushed one of the bottles towards his host, smiling blandly. "It's chess, Mr Holmes, not chance. "

"It is chance, Mr Hope." Sherlock stated in a tone that brooked no argument. He wrinkled his nose. "Presenting me with a pair of dice would have been more elegant. Besides, what is to stop me from simply walking away?"

A thunderous but cunning look swept over Hope's face. Without speaking, the man pulled a gun out from the back of his waistband and held it up, the barrel pointing at Sherlock's chest. Rolling his eyes like surly teenager, the consultant laced his fingers together over his stomach. Smiling smugly, Hope gestured to the bottles on the table.

"Which pill did I give you, eh? The good one, or the bad one? Poison, or placebo?" Leaning back in his seat, the murderous cab driver waggled his pistol back and forth. "You've five seconds to choose. If you don't, I shoot you."

"Please, do us both the favour and fire."

Hope's head leaned to the side, considering. "Not afraid?"

"Of your fake gun? Of course not."

"Are you sure you want to test that?"

"Mr Hope," Sherlock leaned forward just a bit, his back ramrod straight. "You have seen my website by your own admission. You know I am an astute observer of all things related to crime. "That is a lighter, Zippo brand if I'm not mistaken, and I never am, which means the very worst you can do to me with it is perhaps singe off my eyebrows. Please, feel free to press the trigger."

A small flame shot out of the fake pistol barrel when Hope held down the trigger mechanism. He smiled pleasantly. "You are good. None of the others could tell the difference."

"Of course not," Sherlock smirked. "No one else is me."

* * *

Lestrade couldn't decide if he or Dr Watson was the more livid when Mycroft Holmes refused to authorise the use of deadly force which would allow him to call out a sniper and a SWAT team. "Please, Sir, reconsider! He's your brother! Lord knows what damage that criminal is capable of!"

"I will not reconsider, Provost Marshal," Mycroft's voice hissed sternly through the headset in Lestrade's ear. "I assure you, even should the older gentleman be armed, my brother is more than capable of handling himself accordingly. I will not have one of your ill-trained snipers firing over a public street full of civilians."

John had heard enough. Ignoring the argument, he turned his eye back to the building across the street. There were plenty of apartments up there with windows on level with Baker Street's. He wasn't just going to sit idly by and wait for permission to do his damned job.

Watching the Provosts out of the corner of his eye, John darted across the street to the opposite set of flats. He could pick out the various cameras in the street, their IR lights blinking steadily as they panned the roadway. Using a larger, broader pedestrian as a block he melded into the crowd of people crossing the street. He chose his next civilian cover carefully, waiting just in the mouth of an alleyway for a resident of the building to walk up.

He got lucky when an elderly woman with two large shopping bags approached the door. With a kind smile and an 'Allow me, Miss' the old woman blushed heartily and giggled like a schoolgirl, letting John into the building as he took the burden of her bags from her arms. He used the bags to block his face from being fully viewed by the cameras in the lobby.

A second stroke of luck was that the dear woman lived on the ground floor, so once he deposited her bags in her kitchen, he left her flat with a cheeky grin before darting for the door to the staircase. He smiled inwardly at the lack of cameras in the stairwell; an unsurprising oversight in a time when most people simply took the lift. Slipping out onto the floor he needed, he padded as quietly as possible down the corridor.

It seemed almost deserted. No curious neighbours peeked out of their rooms as he passed, and no one save himself was roaming the hall. The thought passed through his mind that the emptiness of the place was a bit suspicious, but he put that off to deal with after he finished with the situation at hand.

Choosing the right room might have been a challenge for the Provost SWAT team, but John's innate sense of direction did not fail him. It was one of those senses often overlooked when people checked out his chimeric DNA. Being part bird had more advantages than just telescopic vision. He narrowed his choices down to two doors, neither of which showed any sign of occupancy, and both of which boasted the same electronic keypad entry system instead of a lock and key. Listening intently, he checked the wear pattern of the carpet before the door and chose which one was most likely to be vacant before focusing on the lock.

The make and model of the keypad reminded him of the old barracks he had lived in during basic training at home in America. Ten years previously, it had been considered the apex of security mechanisms, until someone had learned the fatal flaw in its design. If the power cut out or went down, the keypad would short out and the occupant of the dwelling was essentially locked inside until a repairman could be found, or an emergency crew cut down the door.

Five years ago, the lock company had replaced all the old models with an updated keypad design with a fascinating fail-safe – if the keypad shorted or lost power for any reason, the door would unlock itself. Nothing short of a tazer could generate the voltage required to overload the circuits, but the darts of one could not hope to penetrate the metal casing of the box, nor could they get into the spaces between the thick rubber keys. The locks were virtually impregnable.

Unless you were a certain Navy Hospital Corpsman with a certain genetic anomaly that effectively turned you into a walking Tesla Coil. John pulled a tube of conductive gel, the sort of thing used in conjunction with a defibrillator, from his pocket and squeezed a generous dollop onto his palm. Slapping that hand against the keypad, he depressed the buttons until he could feel the gel seeping around them. With a pulsing tense of muscle, he flexed the Hunter's organs in his abdominals and arm, delivering a powerful eight-hundred volt shock into the mechanism.

With a soft fizzle and a sharp pop, the lights in the apparatus died and the deadbolt inside the door thunked open. Smiling in satisfaction, John pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the excess gel from the pad as well as smudging any fingerprints. Stuffing the cloth back in his pocket, he used his sleeve to open the door and, with a last glance around the empty hall, he slipped into the room.

* * *

"Where were we?" Hope asked, placing the fake weapon on the table between them. He waved at the bottles again. "Right, go on then and choose. Then we can take them together."

"The odds are fifty-fifty, Mr Hope. It is a game of chance, nothing more." Reclining regally in his chair, Sherlock flourished a hand in the direction of the stairwell. "Feel free to turn yourself over to the Provosts on your way out."

The older man snorted. "You don't even want to know why I did it?"

"I can read the report later."

"I'm sure you already figured out the why anyway." Hope leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands over his pudgy middle. "S'not a hard one to figure out. You've probably seen dozens like me, eh? Child support to pay and all that."

Leaning forward slightly, Sherlock scanned his eyes over the relaxed man before him, taking in the clues of spread over the man sitting before him. Everything Hope was wearing was perhaps three years old or more. There was shaving cream still near one of his ears, dried to a crusty film. He mentioned children, but not a wife, and the tan line of his left hand spoke of a ring that had once occupied the second to last finger, but hadn't been worn there for more a month.

"Of course, those payments," Hope continued to drone on, "they drain the money right out of your wallet. Wouldn't be anything left for when my kids finally made it to university. You know, Mr Holmes, you'd be surprised how many ways there is to make money off a corpse."

"You didn't rob them," Sherlock muttered, almost to himself. "You also didn't take any of their organs; you may be a clever man but a surgeon you are not. You work for a cab company, so the money obviously isn't coming from that. How did you make money from the victims."

Smiling again, Hope leaned forward again, his body language engaging, almost friendly. "Every body I make gets me a healthy sum to give to my kids. Easiest money I ever made."

One of Sherlock's brows lifted. "Someone pays you to murder?"

"I prefer to think of it as someone paying me to out-live people."

As Sherlock's brow lowered, one side of his mouth curved up. Conversationally, he asked, "Yes, and how long have you known you were going to die? Three years or so?"

Surprise overtook Hope's face before his mouth broke into a broad grin. "Oh you are clever! Proper genius!" He tapped a finger against his temple. "Aneurysm. Right here. Could burst at any time. To unpredictable a condition for a better paying job than being a cabbie."

"So you 'out-lived' four people for a large sum of money?"

"And it's the most fun I can have in my condition. Four people killing themselves and the Provosts scramblin' about trying to figure it out? How many people ever get that chance?"

"True," Sherlock conceded. "Speaking of chance," the consultant began again, only to be cut off by Hope slicing a hand through the air.

With his mouth settling in a grim line, Hope hissed, "It's not chance, Mr Holmes! It's chess." He pushed the vials further apart. "You aren't playing the bottles, or the ratios, you're playing me. Did I give you the good bottle, or the bad bottle? Is it a bluff? Is it a double bluff, maybe even a triple bluff?" Nudging the table so the pills rattled in their plastic confines, Hope spread his hands out like an offering. "Come on, Mr Holmes. Don't you want to know if you could have beaten me?"


	7. Cleverness or Wisdom

_AN: Here's the second chapter that I promised for tonight. Again I repeat how thankful I am that all of you have stuck with me. Thank you endlessly for reading and commenting and just being your wonderful selves. You mean the world to me._

_Disclaimer: __I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of its characters. I bow before the talented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat for the privilege of borrowing their characters for a bit of fun. Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing them with the world._

**Chapter 7: Cleverness or Wisdom**

"_I not only use all the brains that I have, but all that I can borrow." - Woodrow Wilson_

Snatching up the bottle in front of Hope, Sherlock stood up and leaned closer to the fire. He studied the way the light shimmered off the dull coating around the powder-like substance in the pill. His challenger chuckled and picked up the other bottle and shook the pill out into a calloused hand.

"You know what I always wondered," Jefferson Hope said in an almost dreamy tone. "Why don't people think? Eh? Isn't it maddening? All those stupid sods out there in the big world. They get up, they sleep, they work. For what? A couple of pounds a month? A flat?"

There was something about Hope's voice. Something dangerous, something that sat on the borderline between persuasive and grating. His tone teased, the words poisonously pervasive to the part of Sherlock's overworked, often under-stimulated, genius mind. The red/white pill resting at the bottom of it's orange bottle mocked him, whispering a promise of stimulation. Sherlock was barely aware of tipping it into his open palm.

"When your fan showed me your website I thought, blimey, there's a bloke who understands. I hoped I could meet you someday. When your fan offered me that deal, well, I couldn't pass it up! I knew we'd cross paths. Lo an' behold, here we are."

"You keep mentioning a 'fan'," Sherlock said quietly, his eyes trained on the pill delicately held in his fingertips. "Who is your murder sponsor?"

Hope shrugged. "I never actually met 'im in person. The people he introduced me to, they never mentioned him by name either. I only heard it much later, after my second win. They whisper it in the shadows."

Sherlock waited for more, but Hope did not speak again. Both of them held their respective pills half a foot from their mouths. The cabbie's eye twitched as someone outside on the street below honked their horn. Hope did not break eye contact.

"He said he thought you were bored." Hope smirked. "Not bored now are you?" He lowered his voice. "Moment of truth. Let's take our med'cine and see who's really the cleverest man in London."

Sherlock's hand shook as he brought the capsule closer to his lips.

* * *

'That complete fucktard,' John mentally snarled, watching through the window across the street where Sherlock was sitting across from a murderer as if they were old friends having tea. 'The minute I get him alone, I'm gonna kill him myself.'

From his position in the dark window of the empty apartment across the street from 221B Baker Street, John could see his idiot charge examining something in one hand in the firelight. The shorter man, who John assumed was a cabbie, sat in Sherlock's usual chair with his back to the window. With a shake of his head, John pried open the window he was looking out of and reached into the back of his waistband.

It had been almost a year since he had held his Desert Eagle in his palm, but time had not stopped the grip from feeling at home there. A gift from his old unit, given partially in jest, he had never expected to fire it again. There had been a time long ago, filled with pain and blood and ruin, that had made him sure his arm would never be able to handle the weight of the weapon again. That was all in the past now, and the heavy metal was no more than an extension of his arm once again.

After the war, after the injury and the hospitals and the therapies, John had struggled to find a purpose. Now, standing in a darkened room staring across the darkening street at his new mission, John Watson knew what was expected of him. Raising the gun in a hand as steady as a mountain, he felt his irises dilate as all the predators in his genes focused on his target.

The moment Sherlock brought a hand to his lips, the trigger was pressed. John stayed long enough to make sure his prey was dead before melting into the darkness.

* * *

A thunderous sound cracked a hole in the window of the flat as Sherlock opened his mouth, and through the ringing in his ears he heard Hope scream in agony as something embedded itself in the floor at Sherlock's feet. The cabbie fell to his knees, and then onto his back as a scarlet stain poured dark and thick through a hole in his chest. Wide-eyed, Sherlock stared at the cracks in the window, then down at the faint glimmer of copper in the hole at his feet.

Dropping the pill, Sherlock darted over to examine what is obviously a bullet hole in what remains of the glass window pane. In a flurry of movement, he dropped back to the hole in the floor to examine the dull brass end of a .357 bullet barely visible in the floorboard. Hope wheezed wetly beside him.

"Was I right?" Sherlock asked briskly. He could hear the Provosts outside shouting about taking down the door. "The pill? Was I right?"

Hope smirked, then coughed as blood welled from his lips. He moaned as Sherlock snagged the wrist of his injured arm and twisted. His eyes were dimming fast, but the satisfied look on his face told Sherlock that the answer to that question might never be known.

"Fine then, tell me about my 'fan'. You said you heard his name whispered somewhere. Give me the name."

Stubbornly, Hope shook his head. He cried out as Sherlock stood up and jammed his foot against the edge of the bleeding wound. Varying the pressure, Sherlock pressed down again and again until Hope was nearly screaming.

"The name!"

A single word burst forth from Hope's lips, accompanied by his dying breath, "Moriarty!"

The front door of the building slammed open, yielding to the ramrod of the Provosts. Sherlock had just enough time to move away from the body before the officers powered up the stairs. They dragged the consultant bodily from the room and out of the front door, roughly handing him over to an ambulance crew. When the technician determined he was unharmed after a cursory examination, she gently placed a blanket the same shade of orange as a road cone over his shoulders. Sherlock shrugged it off with a roll of his eyes, only to have her replace it was a sad, pitying smile that made the consultant want to box her ears.

Lestrade sidled up a half a second later, his face showing the same exhausted exasperation it often projected after what Sherlock would have called a 'well-solved case'. The Marshal rubbed a finger along the side of his nose and said mildly, "You know, I hear skydiving is a nice, safe way to get an adrenaline rush."

"Why am I wearing this blanket?"

"EMT thinks you're in shock." Lestrade shrugged. "Plus the lads want to take pictures."

"I'm not shocked!"

"In shock."

"Semantics!" The consultant flapped his hands dramatically. Deciding a change of tactics was in order, as the Provost Marshal's only reaction was a particularly annoying smirk, Sherlock asked, "Who was your sniper?"

"Didn't have one." Lestrade scratched the back of his head in thought. "Your brother refused to authorise deadly force. Some rubbish about our snipers not being good enough to fire over a public street. Whoever it was, they cleared off after the shot so we've nothing to go on."

The look Sherlock graced the Marshal with managed to marry scorn with exasperation. "The bullet your incompetent forensics are digging out of my floor is from a handgun. A kill shot, over that distance? Your shooter is a marksman, a crack shot, or I would also be dead. With only a handgun to make a shot like that his hands couldn't have shaken in the least, which means he must be acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger though, so he must have strong moral principles." Sherlock's eyes scanned the onlookers flooding the street almost lazily. It was highly unlikely the shooter had stuck around for him to pick him out of the crowd. "You're looking for someone with a military background, or at least training, with nerves of steel," his voice trailed off as his eyes stalled on a certain visage.

In the sulphur yellow of the lamp light, in parade rest stance, John Watson had his gaze level. There eyes met and everything clicked into place in Sherlock's mind. A veteran soldier, built around the compassionate heart of a doctor, ranked as a grade-A marksman.

"Ignore everything I just said," Sherlock stated quietly. "Maybe I am in a bit of shock."

Lestrade grunted sympathetically before telling the ambulance crew to get a move on. "I expect a full statement tomorrow," the Marshal ordered before he waved Sherlock away.

Tossing the disgustingly coloured blanket into the open window of a nearby panda car, Sherlock slowly approached his Guardian, pushing his hands into his pockets. John lifted a brow and said conversationally, "Donovan explained to me about the pills. Bad business."

Lips curving in a furtive smile, Sherlock murmured, "Perfect shot. Knew I could count on you."

"No you didn't," John stated flatly. "The only thing you thought about, if you thought at all, was yourself." There was a menacing note seeping into John's voice. "You're lucky the ambulance is leaving now, because otherwise I'd punch you in your stupid fuckin' face."

With a nervous swallow, Sherlock took a tiny step back. "You should probably clean the powder burns off your hands."

"This ain't my first rodeo," John snorted. "By the way, they think I was arguing with Mycroft on my datalet in the alley at the time. I might not be a genius like some people, but I'm sure as shit not an idiot."

Duly chastised, Sherlock glanced around the street before looking John in the eye again and asking, "You are well, though? No guilt? Nervousness?"

John looked up at the sky in contemplation for a moment, then the corner of his mouth quirked up. "I've seen plenty of death in my time, and more than enough violence. I've lost sleep over some of the people I couldn't save, whether they died under my knife or at the barrel of my gun." Dark navy eyes met with Sherlock's lighter verdigris ones. "I'll sleep just fine tonight." The doctor shrugged, his posture relaxing. "'Sides, it's not like he was a nice guy."

"True," Sherlock smirked. "Hungry?"

"Hell yes."

Turning to lead the way down the street, Sherlock felt John fall into step beside him. As they traipsed over to John's car, Sherlock stated, "I know a good Chinese place that stays open until two."

"There's always room for Chinese."  
"Did you know the secret to knowing how good a Chinese restaurant must be is to examine the bottom left third of the door handle?"

"Bullshit."

* * *

_The rest of the office was closed for the night, but Mycroft Holmes's work was only just finished. He watched his younger brother and Guardian make their way to Dr Watson's Jeep, tapping a finger against his lips in thought. "Interesting. We should upgrade their security status, my dear. Grade three should do it."_

_ Seated across from him, busily reading something or other on her datalet screen, his personal assistant glanced up at him in a way that clearly stated 'I'm too well-bred to roll my eyes at you but not well-bred enough not to poison your tea'. He gave her a gamine smile. Turning her eyes back to her screen, she stated simply, "Yes Sir. Grade three."_

* * *

The next morning, at half past five, Sherlock exited his bedroom and tiptoed to the stairwell, his shoes in one hand. They hadn't been able to return to the flat until a little past four in the morning, and John had gone straight up to his bedroom. It was Sherlock's hope that John would be asleep for at least five or six hours. That would give him time to pilfer the car keys from John's coat, drive down to Saint Bart's, and get in about two hours worth of work in the lab before his Guardian even noticed he wasn't at home.

"Going somewhere?"

Cringing, Sherlock slowly turned to face his Guardian. John was leaning against the jamb of the kitchen door with his arms crossed over his chest, and a mug in one hand. He was wearing a shapeless black hooded sweatshirt, with a stylised devil dressed as a doctor with a red cross on a white band around one of its flexed biceps, and black sweatpants. Sherlock could read a bit of tiredness in the faint dark circles under the shorter man's eyes, but John did not seem otherwise affected by lack of sleep.

One of John's eyebrows rose, "What part of 'disappear again and I will break both your ankles' didn't compute the first time?"

Sighing gustily, Sherlock turned sharply back into the living room and flopped face-down on the sofa. He had been so close to just a few solid hours of work without being watched over like an errant duckling. Perhaps the universe was plotting against him.

The soft sound of ceramic touching down on wood called his attention, and Sherlock turned his face to the left. A blue mug sat on the coffee table in arm's reach, steam curling up from the rim. Nearby floorboards creaked as John shifted his weight and walked around into Sherlock's field of vision.

"Seriously though, was there something you had to do?"

Frowning at the cup, Sherlock watched the steam waft into the air and dissipate.

"Appointment? Did that guy Lestrade want you to come in for an interview or some paperwork?"

Sherlock turned his head back to the sofa, sighing gustily again.

"I feel like I'm playing twenty questions with a tea kettle."

Silence fell for a solid five more minutes before Sherlock started fidgeting. He could feel John staring at him, not moving. Finally, Sherlock gave in, "I was heading to Saint Bart's hospital."

John made an odd noise then asked, "Could you say that again without being muffled by the sofa?"

"I said," Sherlock shoved himself into a sitting position, "that I was going to go to Saint Bart's Hospital. I was hoping to do some of my own lab work in regards to the late Mr Hope."

"Why didn't you just say that?"

A moue of disgust and discontent shadowed Sherlock's face. "You are my Guardian and therefore will be hanging over my shoulder every moment. I will be too focused on the work to answer any questions or even acknowledge your existence. Thus, you will be bored and act more annoying than usual"

"Okay." John stretched his arms above his head, and a faint popping came from his spine. "How about a deal then?" He waited to make sure he had Sherlock's full attention before continuing, "If you promise me you'll stay put in the lab, I'll drop you off there and go take a jog and run some errands. I'll come back for you around noon or so, unless you contact me earlier, and we'll pick up some lunch."

Blinking, Sherlock could only stare at John for a long moment in surprise. It was clearly an exercise in trust, but was it to prove to Sherlock that John had no compulsion to watch over him like a hawk, or was it for Sherlock to prove to John that he could be trusted to remain on his own. If John were like Mycroft, with the ability to order people to keep watch on all the CCTV footage, then trust wouldn't even be a factor in their professional relationship. There was also the fact that no one had ever tried compromising with him before.

John was still studying him with his head tilted slightly to one side and his eyes narrowed slightly. Sherlock flashed him a quick smile of contentment. "I also need to pop by the morgue."

The left side of John's mouth twitched upward, "Alright then, you contain yourself to the hospital morgue and the lab and I'll stop by again at noon."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes shrewdly, "Is there some sort of retaliation for if I do not?"

"Breaking your ankles is still an option on the table," John stated in the matter of fact tone someone else might have said 'you'll find a pink slip in your inbox'.

"I can't tell if you are being facetious or not."

A slow, disquieting smirk developed from John's half smile. "Your jacket's downstairs?"

Glancing over his Guardian's clothes, Sherlock asked, "Are you planning on wearing that?"

"No, I planned to jog around greater London in my underwear and a waistcoat." The sarcasm in John's tone was almost tangible enough to slap Sherlock in the face. John rolled his eyes at the dark look that was overtaking his charge's face. "I promise I'll come back and change before I pick you up later."

Sherlock's expression cleared and he stood up, straightening his immaculate suit jacket with a tug. "That is acceptable."

Stretching out a calloused hand, John said, "Shake on it then? And I need to hear the words, if you don't mind?"

Rolling his eyes elegantly Sherlock slid his hand into John's and intoned, "I will remain in either the lab or the morgue of Bart's until you return at noon, hopefully better dressed than you are now."

Frowning, John raised his eyes to the ceiling then shrugged, giving their hands a single, firm shake. "Not exactly what I was hoping you'd say, but I'll take it."

"I'll drive," Sherlock said almost cheerily, nearly bounding for the stairs

"Not a chance," John chuckled, following him down the stairs.

They waltzed out into the weak sunshine, and settled into John's car with only a small delay which consisted of Sherlock trying to open the driver side door and John standing with his arms crossed just staring at him. It was becoming apparent to both men that John's patience and ability to wait things out was infinitely better than Sherlock's. The consultant got into the passenger seat with a sour expression. He was mollified slightly by John putting on a Beethoven playlist as they drove.

John went so far as to escort his charge all the way in to the lab and watch him settle in a seat before taking his leave. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as John's form trotted around the hallway corner and disappeared from view. Determined to make the most of his time, he buckled down to setting up some pipettes, a few files, and a microscope in his own little corner of the room. He had no idea if John would return to check on him, but he figured it would be at least an hour before he would be safe to disappear into London's streets.

An hour and a half later, while Sherlock was studying the chemical composition of one of Hope's pills beneath the microscope, his datalet pinged loudly. Glancing over at it, he raised his eyebrow at the name of the sender. It had been at least five years since he'd last heard from Sebastian Wilkes, and they hadn't parted on very good terms at that.

The message read:

**Sherlock – How are things, buddy? It's been a long time since we last saw each other. I hear through the grapevine that you're now a consulting detective. There's been an incident at the bank – something odd. I was hoping you could sort it for me. Please call by. Needless to say, I'll be relying on your discretion. - Seb Wilkes**

With a glance at his watch to check the time, Sherlock smirked and fired off a quick text message to Sebastian confirming an appointment and requesting the address for his branch of the National Reserve. If he was very lucky, either the case would not be boring, or it would be boring and he could return to the lab long before Watson returned from his errands. He cleaned up his workstation with eager efficiency and then bolted for the door.

With a wave of his arm a sleek black cab pulled up and Sherlock bundled himself into the back seat. He probably should have felt a little reticent – after all, he had nearly been murdered by a cabbie rather recently – but the only thing on his mind was the thrill of a possible case. Even if the case turned out to be simple he could throw the answer in Sebastian's smug face. Perhaps Mycroft would even learn of it and chastise Watson for being so predictably nice.

* * *

_When the tall form of the consulting detective didn't even hesitate to call a cab as he practically bounced out of the hospital doors, John shook his head and slid his car into gear. It was easy to follow the cab through the streets, especially with the GPS locator in Sherlock's datalet blinking on the screen of John's map screen. Sherlock wasn't even bothering to change cabs._

_ When they paused at a red light, John tapped a series of numbers quickly into his call screen and hit 'send' before switching back to the map. He deftly kept two car lengths behind the cab as they slid through the streets while the ringtone buzzed in the car speakers. When a female voice asked to whom he would like to be connected he simply asked for Mr Mycroft Holmes's personal assistant. _

_ After another round of ringing, a female voice said, "Dr Watson, to what do I owe this communication?"_

_ "I was wondering if you could do me a dubious favour?"_

_ "Dubious?" Her tone was either intrigued or confused._

_ "I was wondering if you could find out where Sherlock thinks he's going in the cab I'm following so I can beat him there and act on my promise." John slid around a traffic circle once and then passed through to be sure he wasn't noticed. _

_ Over the sound of fingers tapping rapidly at a screen, she asked, "What promise?"_

_ "I promised Sherlock I'd break both his ankles if he tried to disappear on me. It seems he didn't believe me." _

_ She made a sound like she was choking on a drink, and John realized she was smothering laughter. It took her a long second to compose herself again. "According to the last text message he received he's on his way to Shad Sanderson, the most secure branch of the National Reserve. I'll send you the address; and since the cab has to follow a predetermined 'fastest' route, I'm also sending you shortcuts and putting a 'No Stop' order on your plate. Run all the lights you like."_

_ John was stunned quiet for a few seconds. "To what do I owe the honour?"_

_ "I've been Mr Holmes's personal assistant for almost eight years, Doctor. In that time if I have learned one thing it's that trying to control Sherlock Holmes is like trying to tame a bear while wearing a salmon suit. It's just going to get you mauled in the end."_

_ Rolling his eyes, John sighed, "So basically you're going to watch on the CCTV while he chews me out?"_

_ "While that would be fun, no. You're trying to beat Sherlock at his own game. I think you may be the first person to try any approach other than brute force." She was silent a moment. "Good luck keeping the bear at bay."_

_ With a snort, John hung up and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He had known almost from the beginning that Sherlock would be a handful – his intelligence alone made him a challenge to keep up with. John might not be a genius, but his instincts screamed that Sherlock needed protection from himself almost as much as from the criminals he helped the Provosts put in jail. John was determined to follow those instincts – intelligent people had disappointed him before, but his instincts never had._

* * *

The cab pulled up in front of the building which held Shad Sanderson and Sherlock all but tossed his fare at the driver before hopping out onto the curb. A glance at his datalet showed him there were still no messages from his Guardian, which meant Watson probably hadn't even realized he was missing yet. Smiling to himself, Sherlock strode towards the door of the bank. He wrapped a hand around the door handle, and a calloused hand landed on his wrist.

"Fancy meeting you here."

Frozen in shock, Sherlock slowly turned until his cat-green eyes met with the slate eyes of his Guardian. Blinking several times revealed that he was not, in fact, hallucinating Watson's presence. He wanted to say something, anything, to try and turn the situation to his advantage. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind.

John's other hand cupped Sherlock's elbow and he steered them into a corner of the foyer. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't break your legs right here?" The dark voice in which he spoke, laced with what was definitely a snarl, sent a very unpleasant sensation down Sherlock's spine.

"I thought it was my ankles," Sherlock responded flatly, refusing to look like he was backing down.

"Semantics." John's stare was uncompromising and unrelenting.

"I was contacted by an old," the detective paused minutely, "acquaintance of mine. He has a case for me."

He thought the pause would have gone unnoticed, but John's eyes narrowed and his head tilted a bit to the side in an odd way that managed to convey disbelief, predatory focus, and consideration. "And the reason you decided not to contact me was, what exactly?"

"I don't need your help," Sherlock snapped waspishly. "It's not dangerous in the least; this is the most secure bank in London. The only place in the world with better security is an international bank in Switzerland. It's not like I walked directly into a slum with my wallet in my hand." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I even took a cab instead of the Tube, where I could easily have been stabbed while my assailant disappeared into the crowd."

"Considering your previous encounter with a cabbie, that last statement was even less encouraging than you think." Sighing through his nose, John rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand. "Look, you might not think I understand, but I do. You're a genius, maybe the smartest man in the world. I have no doubt that, when push comes to shove you could get yourself out of a tight spot with your wits alone. But you know what's smarter than getting out of a situation?" John's gaze was intense, and Sherlock was caught silent by it. "Not getting into it in the first place. When it comes to that, you've got all the skill of a mouse with toxoplasmosis."

Sherlock had the decency to look somewhat chagrined. He just barely restrained himself from shuffling his feet like a mortified school boy. "I don't exactly seek out cats, Watson."

"But you can admit they end up sniffing you out anyway? By the very nature of your job they're bound to come after you." The doctor's shoulders twitched, as if he were fighting the urge to pace, and his voice lowered. "Speaking as a soldier, when you make your enemy's lives miserable they never stop trying to find a way around your perimeter to sneak up on you six and take you by surprise."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock locked his hands behind his back, broadening his stance and looming over his shorter Guardian. "I am a genius, as you said, Doctor. I am definitely capable of thinking more than three steps ahead of my opponents. I am rarely caught by surprise, and more than capable of handling myself after the fact, as you have previously stated." He leaned over a bit more, using his height to cow the smaller man, and lowered his voice into a sharper tone. "These are criminals, not soldiers. Low-lives, cut-throats, thugs for hire. Very rarely do I run into a criminal who's empire is broad enough to warrant military backup. You are a moot point, Doctor. A redundancy."

Instead of backing up or shrinking away, John rocked his square head on his neck, unslumped his broad shoulders, broadened his stance, and stood with his back arrow-straight. He stepped further into Sherlock's personal space, and the stillness with which he stood was unnatural for a human. He stared directly into Sherlock's eyes, gaze unwavering, and his lips twitched as if he were suppressing a snarl. Sherlock noted briefly that from a normal distance John's teeth looked human enough, but this close the sharpness, shape, and dental formula more closely resembled that of a cat or a dog.

"I'll ignore the fact for a moment that you've completely disregarded my medical expertise, and focus more on the fact that if there is one thing I know it is predators." John's held tilted, almost lizard-like, to the side. "Criminals prey on the weak, and the foolish, and challenge themselves by taking on problems that their brethren find too difficult. You're just a challenge in the way of their next score; a speed bump in the criminal underground. One day one of them is going to decide playing your game is too much effort and is just going to shoot you where you stand." The fang-filled smile that John revealed by slowly lifting his lips would have been more comforting on a diseased fox. "That is where I come in, Mr Holmes. On that day you're going to need someone to recognize that you're about to get your head blown off and shoot the other bastard first." John straightened his neck and covered his teeth and smiled contemplatively. "Or at least I'll be there to pull the bullet out of your ass."

Sherlock couldn't help the delighted smile that slowly spread over his face. Most of his previous Guardians had gone for the physical – threats, manhandling, pressure points. Not one had even thought to try rationalizing their presence. None of them had presented an argument for their continued appearance at his side. Nor had they ever seemed more threatening than Sherlock could make himself seem without resorting to a show of bodily strength. Not to mention, how the hell had Watson beat him to the bank?

"Very well, Doctor Watson. Very well," Sherlock brought his hands back to his sides and leaned back slightly. "Why did you arrive here?"

"I've been following you," the doctor was smirking. "I took a half hour jog, changed, and then I just putzed around the security room at the hospital until you got on the move."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion, "I'm sorry, puzted?"

"Puttered," John recovered quickly. "Sorry. I puttered around the security room and then I followed your cab."

"You couldn't have beaten me here if you were following," an idea clicked on in Sherlock's head. "Mycroft. Of course."

"Close." John smirked again at Sherlock's quizzical glance. "His secretary actually. I promised her pictures of those broken ankles, by the way, so if we could get on with that?"  
Snorting, Sherlock turned towards the door of the bank, then glanced at his datalet. Sebastian Wilkes was not his favourite person by an extremely wide margin. It might be helpful to have a bit of backup with some spine. Especially one that didn't seem easy to intimidate. He took a critical look at the clothing John was now wearing – black combat boots laced up under dark blue jeans, a crisply collared black, white, and red plaid shirt underneath a black cable knit jumper, and his dark black peacoat. It was a serviceable outfit; a high-end salon would hesitate to turn him away/

"My fracturing will have to wait," Sherlock stated in a business-like tone. "As I previously stated an old acquaintance has requested my help with a security problem at this very bank in which we stand."

One of John's pale brows rose, "Security problem? Seems a little below your paygrade."

"It would be if this bank wasn't considered one of the most secure monetary location in the Coalition. The sort of place where keycards and redundancies abound." Sherlock spun on his heel and held the door open to the inner lobby of the bank itself. As John fell into step beside him, Sherlock lowered his voice and continued, "They had a break-in that the security and information technicians cannot figure out. When faced with an unsolvable puzzle, and an opportunity to impress his superiors, Sebastian Wilkes, an old acquaintance of mine from university, remembered my penchant for mysteries."

John hummed in a way that might have been an expression of curiosity or comprehension. He kept otherwise silent as they reached the main secretary, and only frowned when they were escorted into the inner business sanctum of the bank. Sherlock was pleased to note John wasn't impressed in the slightest with the opulence around him.

They passed through no less than three checkpoints with corresponding metal detectors before they were escorted onto the same floor as Sebastian's office. The two-man security detail were large men, dressed in all-black three-piece suits, who looked more suited to standing guard at the doors of a bar than the doors of a bank. One put his hand on John's arm in order to keep him from following Sherlock into Sebastian's office, and jerked back as if he'd been shocked. John smirked and walked around him to take up a post in full view of the doorway behind the chair opposite Sebastian's desk.

"Holmes, what's it been? five years?"

Sebastian Wilkes had changed very little since their time in university. Dressed in an immaculate Gucci suit in dark navy with faint red pinstripes over a burgundy waistcoat with cream coloured buttons and trim, an off-white shirt, and a navy silk tie. Fit, but not necessarily trim, he was still in fair shape. A wry smile flickered over his face as Sherlock shook his hand, and his grip was unnecessarily hard.

_[New watch – Breitling, this season – came out in February, date is incorrect by two days but time is correct; has been abroad and crossed the date line at least twice. Suit is expensive, well tailored but not bespoke. Shirt is high-priced and good quality, just matches the cream accents of his vest. Has put on at least a half stone – face is flesher around the edges, sleeve cuffs are just shy of straining. No sign of a wedding ring.]_

"It's been above eight years, actually, Sebastian." Sherlock settled into the seat opposite the desk with a twitch of his coat. "You're doing well. Been abroad a lot."

"Some." Sebastian had _that_ smile on his face. The one he used to use in the formal hall that meant he was baiting whoever his conversational partner into saying something that he could use to his own advantage. Usually it was a set down, or a thinly veiled insult.

Sherlock hated that smile. "Flying around the world, twice in a month?"

"You're doing that thing," Sebastian pointed at him. He glanced up at John, who stood at parade rest behind Sherlock's chair. "We were at Uni together. This guy here had a trick he liked to do. Could look at you and tell your whole life story." He looked back at Sherlock briefly before looking at John again. "Put the wind up everyone; we hated him. You come down to breakfast in the morning and this freak would know you'd been shagging the night before."

"I simply observed," Sherlock stated flatly, glancing briefly at the window behind Sebastian's shoulder. In the reflection, he could see John's head tilt very slowly to one side, like a hungry owl.

"Enlighten me then," Sebastian leaned back in his plush velvet chair. "Two trips abroad in a month. How can you tell? Is there a ketchup stain on my tie from some special condiment store you can only find in Manhattan or something? Mud on my shoes?"

"I chatted briefly with your secretary," Sherlock answered. Sebastian smirked and nodded in a way that indicated he recognized when he was beaten at his own game. In the window, Sherlock could see John smirk before he relaxed back into stone-faced parade rest. "So, break-in?"

"Right," Sebastian picked up his datalet from the desk. It was covered with an expensive designer folio case, the back of it able to double as an elaborate business card. "Happened last night at about a quarter to midnight. I had our IT team send me the video."

In the video, which was focused only on the security desk of the trading floor, in the span of a minute a single symbol had appeared spray-painted in black at one station of the two-man console. Behind the security desk was a pair of lifts, and from what Sherlock could remember of that room there were no windows and only one door. The symbol was perfectly centred on the one side of the desk.

"Where were the security personnel at the time?" Sherlock asked as he passed the screen back to its owner.

"Switching shifts. They have to go down to the first floor to pass on their information to the next pair." Sebastian leaned back in his seat and pulled open a drawer in his desk. "Solve this, help us plug up the hole in our security, and for your help and discretion we'll pay you very handsomely." He slid a cheque for five thousand pounds sterling across the table. "This is just an incentive. There's another forty-five in it for you if you solve it."

"I don't need incentive, Sebastian." Sherlock said airily. He passed the cheque over his shoulder to John, who sucked in a sharp breath at the sum. John slipped it into an inner pocket of his coat while Sherlock gave Sebastian a perfunctory smile. "I'll be in touch with you in a few days when I have the solution."

"Appreciate it, old friend," Sebastian stood and gave him another hard shake of the hand.

Sherlock strode out of the room, John on his heels. They were half-way down the hall when John spoke up. "You never spoke to his secretary. You said that just to tick him off."

Smirking, Sherlock shortened his stride until they were walking in step. "I don't know what you mean."

"Let's have it then." John watched him out of the corner of his eye, a smirk on his face. "How'd you know?"

"His watch." At the inquisitive sound John made, Sherlock elaborated, "Newest model Breitling – only came out this February. The time is correct, but the date is two days ago; he never bothered altering it."

"Incredible," John said under his breath, his tone awed.

Preening slightly, Sherlock snagged his Guardian by the elbow and steered him to the security desk so they could see the symbol for themselves. With his datalet, Sherlock took several pictures of the symbol, the desk, the hall, the lifts, and the doorway. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched John strike up a conversation with one of the bankers in the cubicles nearby.

Once he thought he had enough visual evidence, and he'd silently debated the pros and cons of scraping some of the paint into one of the evidence bags in his pocket, he glanced around to locate his Guardian. John was perched with one hip on the desk of a nearby banker, chatting jovially with several of the young ladies and a couple of young men. Sherlock barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes before striding over.

"Come along, Watson," the consultant beckoned, sweeping through the middle of the group.

Behind him, he could hear John apologising for having to rush and leave. He caught up a half-second after Sherlock entered the lift, just before the doors quietly shut. "I assume you got everything you need?"

"Almost. We just need to stop by the main Security office to get the name of the guard who would have been on duty at that desk last night."

"Justin Montemorency."

"Yes," Sherlock paused, and turned his face sharply to the man beside him. "Wait, what?"

John gave him a mischievous smirk. "Justin Montemorency is the guard who came on duty at that side of the desk last night. Scuttlebutt says he quit half-an-hour after he came on shift, same time he and his partner finally got up to the desk and found the graffiti. They haven't been able to reach him since."

The door of the lift opened and John strode out, leaving Sherlock standing, half-stunned, until they had almost closed again. Catching up to his shorter Guardian in a few long strides, Sherlock stated, "You know, Watson, I think you missed your calling. Isn't there a daytime telly show you should be hosting or something?"

John snorted. "You're just mad you didn't find it out for yourself."

"Don't be silly," Sherlock turned to follow the sign labelled 'Security Main Office'. "It will make finding out where he lives much easier."

"Mayfair."

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the floor, whirling around to face Watson. "You cannot be serious."

"Charles street. One of the girls dated him for a few months." John's smile was just shy of utterly unapologetic.

Straightening his coat lapels, Sherlock barely refrained from childishly knocking John's shoulder as he strode towards the entrance to the bank. Over his retreating shoulder, the petulant consultant commented, "For your cheek, you can drive."


End file.
